Reflections
by L.A. Mason
Summary: Nothing is ever simple. Especially not when Fujimiya Aya's idea of a vacation was to take on solo missions. It wasn't a problem until he didn't come back, setting in motion events that would change them all if they survived. Rated R for complex plot, lan
1. Prologue: Beginning & Ch 1: Homecoming

**_Author's Notes:_**

_It was my intent to simply post without excuses or preamble, but I find that I can't. There are some things that I refuse to spell out – such as future pairings, since I feel that knowing will detract from the story – but there are some things that simply have to be made plain._

_Firstly, yes, this is going to wind up being AU. I've been a fan of WK for a while, and have followed as much of the canon story as I can: from "An Assassin and White Shaman, to Kapitel, to the drama cds, to Gluhen, to Side B. There isn't wiggle room for a story such as mine to fit in there without disrupting what_ _Takehito Koyasu has envisioned. It's my humble opinion that the spiral into madness begins with the final straw represented by "Verbrechen und Strafe," and so I've decided to hijack the timeline just before those events. (And yes, frankly, it saves me from the whole mobile flower shop in Kyoto nonsense. Even though I do love some of the arc set during that period, there are too many things that annoy me)._

_Which brings me to my second grievance. I have a difficult time making the ages as given in the anime series work. A generous and long-suffering friend provided the following: at the beginning of the season one anime, Kapitel, the ages run : 16, 18, 20, 21; and in the manga: 16, 18, 20, 24. I've chosen to use the manga. "Relections" will fall at least a year after Aya joined Weiss, or about three years after his parents' murder, making Aya 21 or 22 by this time. In the manga when Aya first joins, Yohji tells him that he's been with the group for 2 years. If we assume that Yohji had some time in his prior profession before Asuka's death, and before that he would have had to have been old enough for a private investigator's license in the first place, Yohji by now is maybe as much as 25. The same kind of logic also applies to Ken. I think he would have had to have been 18 to be drafted for professional soccer. His career ended at least a year before Aya joined up, so about 2-2 1/2 years ago. That means Kenken is pushing 21, depending on how long he got to play before Kase and his dirty tricks caught up to him. Omi was 16 at the start of the Kapitel, so call him 17 now._

_Well, that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. It may not be anime canon, but I needed a better explanation._

_And lastly, the use of Japanese. There isn't much. To be truthful, English is my second language as it is. I see no reason to court making a fool of myself when I'm telling a story in English by inserting words in Japanese. Take it as a given that that's what the characters speak and think in, and move on. There will be a few terms that work best when left alone, but other than that, I intend to avoid the fannish custom of butchering a language that I have little familiarity with._

_I hope that you will enjoy "Reflections." If you have an urge to contact me directly, please feel free to email._

_L.A. Mason_

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**__**

**_Reflections: Beginning_**

_Prologue_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

Omi drifted through the living room, intent on the manga in his hands. If it hadn't been for nearly tripping over Ken's foot where it stuck out past the end of the sofa, he would never have looked up, would never have caught a glimpse of the muted TV screen out of the corner of his eye... _Oh, my God..._ He froze. The magazine fluttered from his abruptly nerveless fingers. A tremor swept over his small frame, and he made an inelegant, gagging noise.

"Hey- !" Ken bit off a protest when the youngest member of their team staggered backwards, nearly taking his foot off against the edge of the couch. The damned thing had wood-trimmed arms in some sleek, ultra-modern style, and was sharp enough to inflict razor burn. "Omi! Watch where you're going..." But the smaller boy hadn't heard a word that he said; was staring fixedly at the TV screen. Ken frowned and dragged himself far enough upright to see over the littered coffee table. And choked in surprise. And scrabbled madly for the remote so that he could turn up the volume to an audible level.

"—found during a recent police raid in Tanagawa is still unidentified. Authorities have issued an appeal for assistance and released this photo. Anyone with information regarding the victim is encouraged to contact district police headquarters at-- "

Aya.

_Oh, my God... That **has** to be Aya..._

The newscaster moved on to an unrelated story about a warehouse fire near the docks, but neither of the Weiss hunters moved. All either of them could see was a horrible crime scene photograph of a swollen face, skin purple with bruises and angry red from scrapes... one eye closed by puffed flesh over what was obviously a broken cheekbone. But the other eye, listless and vacant had been violet, and the filthy, matted hair was the dark shade of crimson that they had only ever seen on one living being.

On Aya.

Yohji cursed soundly at the screaming and shouting coming from downstairs, noise that was coming his way at about mach 2 if he was to judge by the thundering of running feet on the stairs. He knew that it wouldn't work, but he stuffed his head back under his pillow anyway, and held it down with both hands. His door banged open with enough force to send it ricocheting off of the wall, and by the sound of it, nearly taking off Ken's nose in the process. Something solid landed on the bed, and Yohji's pillow was ripped from his face. He cracked an eye, caught a glimpse of a white face, and tried to grab the pillow back.

"Omi..." he groaned, "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

"Aya. Aya's been found-- "

"WHAT?!" The short, sweet sound of that name did more than a shot of coffee straight into his veins could have. Yohji shot upright in bed, tossing back the blankets. He was completely unmindful of the fact that he was stark naked, and that Omi made an odd, sputtering noise when he scrambled out of bed and into a pair of jeans that had been in a heap on the floor. "Where? Did Birman call? Dammit, where _is_ he?"

"Tanagawa. The police found him in a raid-- " Ken interjected. The soccer player waved a hand in front of Omi's wide eyes, startling the younger boy into blushing and stammering his own agreement.

"Yeah... Tanagawa. It was on the news. They were asking for help in identifying him."

Yohki abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed. Shaking, he whispered, "Identifying? Oh, fuck no. He can't be _dead_."

"Um, no. I don't think so." The smaller blond thought rapidly. The news reporter had said 'victim,' not 'deceased.' And, lost though that violet gaze had been in the photo, it hadn't been the eye of a dead man; gods knew he had seen enough of _those_ to be able to tell the difference. Then something else occurred to him, and his lips tightened. "Yohji, we have to get him back before anyone else recognizes him."

Behind his shoulder, Ken murmured, "And just how the heck are we supposed to do that?"

In the end, they decided to simply steal him.

The plan was for Omi to hack into the police and hospital security systems, and to try to derail duty schedules and guard assignments, while simultaneously taking down both the primary and back-up power on one of the hospital's lower, non-critical care floors. Yohji was to be in position at the nearest nurses' station, chatting up the women on behalf of a fictitious friend, ready to move when the chaos hit. It was kind of dumb, actually. Of the four of them, Ken was the most nondescript, the closest to just looking Japanese, even though his hair had streaked rusty brown thanks to spending every spare minute outside in the sun, coaching the neighborhood kids in soccer. Yohji, between his height, jade green eyes, and wavy dark blond hair was really too memorable. But he also had a knack with people – especially women - that the younger athlete lacked. So, he got to stay inside, and Ken got to freeze his butt off, waiting on the ledge just outside Aya's window.

This last was, of course, the riskiest part of the plan. They would have to lower a man with unknown injuries two stories down to a roof-top terrace, bundle him into a wheelchair, and hopefully make it out the parking lot door, and do it all before anyone noticed that they were short a patient.

As plans went, it was far from their best.

For one thing, no one had bothered to inform the weather gods that wind and freezing drizzle were bad things. Ken squeezed himself more tightly into the angle between a concrete abutment and the target window, blowing on his numbed fingertips. He had chosen to wear gloves that left them bare under the mistaken impression that it would give him an edge in case he had to use lock picks or any other fine tools. Fat chance, if his fingers froze off first. It was nearly the middle of March, for Pete's sake, and his dark jacket wasn't really suitable for hanging around out of doors, either.

But at least he didn't have too long to wait. He figured that Omi would be pulling the plug on the electricity any minute now. Their resident computer wiz had already reported over the comm-link that the remaining police officer assigned to guard Aya's door had gone to use the phone at the duty supervisor's desk, and was reaming out his partner, who swore that he wasn't due to relieve him for another two hours. If Yohji could slip unnoticed through the unguarded door during the few minutes of confusion to come, they would presumably be undisturbed for the better part of an hour, until it was time for someone to check on the invalid. Plenty of time to make their escape, right? Then why was his stomach tying itself into miserable knots?

Was it because it was Aya? Indestructible, iron-willed, unyielding Aya? The redhead wasn't supposed to be fragile, or end up seriously wounded. Or missing for upwards of a month, either. To start with, none of them had been too alarmed when the repressed man had elected to take a break by himself for a while; of all of them, he was the least comfortable living hand in glove the way they did. He had simply needed a little space, a little distance between his weary soul and the constant reminders of what they did for a living. Yohji could go out drinking, and pick up chicks, Ken could immerse himself in soccer with the neighborhood kids, and Omi had his schoolwork and computers... Aya got his equilibrium back by pushing things away when they got to be too much.

But he wasn't supposed to get hurt in the process.

Birman had confirmed that Aya had taken at least one solo assignment during his time apart from them. Nothing big, nothing dangerous, not even something that had required a killing to complete. It kind of bothered Ken that his teammate's idea of a vacation consisted of more of the same, but Aya was Aya. In a warped sort of way, it even made sense. The mini-mission had gone off without a hitch, but when Birman next tried to contact him, there had been no answer. And that had been three long weeks ago.

Somewhere below, lights flickered, and went dark. At very nearly the same instant, Omi's voice, thin over the tiny speaker in his ear, said simply "Now." Expertly, Ken fed a shim through a crack by the window and popped its latch. He was through and the betraying draft cut off within seconds, and was just sliding into concealment behind the cotton drape that allowed the room to be divided into a double when the door to the corridor opened. A tall, lanky form was briefly silhouetted against the light. Yohji. His supposition was confirmed by the soft exhalation of his name, "Ken?"

"Yeah." The younger man stepped from his hiding place, and for the first time let his gaze slide to the occupied bed. The form it held hadn't so much as twitched, and that was really disturbing. Aya would never have allowed anyone to invade his space.

"How is he?" Yohji whispered. He didn't seem to find anything strange about un-Aya-ish behavior, and was plucking a small chart from a plastic holder attached to the intravenous stand and its attendant drug pump. He frowned in the dim light, trying to make sense of the symbols and abbreviations on the page. Ken mimicked his frown.

"Not a clue." he admitted. There was nothing in the hospital room to answer the question, either, except for the still shape in the bed. Any documentation was presumably at the nurses' station, or locked up in some doctor's office. Omi had admitted freely that there was next to nothing available to him and his computer. Which presumably meant that there was something special, something that only Aya's assailant would know about. Ken's stomach clenched uneasily as the thought of what _that_ might be. In his years with Weiss, he had seen too damned many things, and his imagination was primed to give him the worst. He sighed, and pushed back his reluctance to approach the bed-ridden man. The clock was ticking, and there really, truly was no other way... But damn, he didn't want to take a look at what had been done to his team mate.

As he lifted the sheet covering Aya's sleeping form, Yohji tucked the list of meds that he was on into a pocket and began assembling the web sling that they would be using to lower Aya to safety. Ken took a deep breath. Well. First observation: while the slim redhead was wrapped like a mummy in bandages, there was no cast, not even a temporary Velcro-ed splint, unless you counted the fact that his pinky finger was taped to its neighbor. That suggested that they didn't have to worry about any major broken bones. But there were disturbingly large hunks of gauze packed into wounds on his shoulder, right side, and inner thigh. That did not bode well for their brand of rough and ready kitchen doctoring. Ken murmured his findings to the former PI as he gently skimmed his hands over his companion's oblivious body. Whatever the doctors had him on, it had to be pretty potent stuff.

Yohji grunted and stepped back from the careful arrangement of ropes and pulleys. It was all rock climbing gear, intended for lowering an unconscious adventurer in case of an emergency, and eminently suited to their needs. He stepped around the end of a cart loaded with blinking equipment, addressing their absent team member as he did so. "Oi, Omi. I'm ready for you to take over the monitors."

"Hai." The lights on the panels gave the barest flicker, then resumed their patient counting and timing. The taller man began swiftly unhooking the leads attached to Aya, as Ken carefully detached the IV from the back of his hand. It took both of them together to shift him into the cocoon of blankets and webbing for his descent. Ken cinched down the last strap just as his partner opened the window. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

"Yohji, I want to go down with him."

That earned him a worried frown. Yohji was generally too laid-back for his own good, but on something like this, he wouldn't dream of deviating from the agreed-upon plan. Which, in this case, had himself rappelling slowly down along side Aya, steadying him so that he wouldn't bump the wall, and catching him at the bottom. Ken was supposed to stay up top to remove all traces of the ropes before following him down along the more treacherous route of a free climb. It didn't really matter; they were each as good as the other when it came to climbing; but it went against the mission.

"Please?" the younger man said.

Yohji ran a hand back through his thick, amber gold hair, and shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever." He blew out a breath noisily, and somehow, without really knowing how it happened, Ken found himself guiding the too still form of the redhead down to where Omi now waited with a wheelchair, and a longish brunette wig. Moments later, Ken was wheeling his "mother" down a corridor, chattering cheerfully about nothing in particular. No one gave him a second glance.

They were pretty much right on schedule, reaching the exit just as the lights came back on. The hospital staff were all too busy to pay any attention to a wholesome-looking young man with an open, guileless face walking out the main doors. If anything, the only woman who noticed – a volunteer on her way to sit with some distraught family in the ER's waiting room - thought it was rather sweet, the way he carefully tied the scarf around his mother's hair, and made sure that the long coat she wore was buttoned up close against the unpleasant weather outside. The volunteer gave them a fluttery little wave as they passed by, and never noticed soullessly dark eyes grow sadder.

Yohji had a dark, nondescript sedan waiting for them right outside the door, hazard lights blinking in the no parking zone, and between them, they loaded "mom" into the front passenger seat. Ken rolled the wheelchair to the side of the entry way, and quickly scrambled into the car's back seat. They were pulling smoothly away from the curb, signaling a turn out into traffic, and then they were free.

Beside him, Omi sank back, boneless in a post-mission feeling of relief that had nothing and everything to do with their lost lamb. "Jesus," Ken murmured. "I have never been so glad to get out of a hospital in my life." As the bars of light cast by the street lamps flickered past them, the youngerer boy nodded emphatic agreement.

"Yeah... the worst is over now."

_**Reflections: Homecoming**_

_Chapter One _

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If only it really were that simple. Birman was waiting for them when they pulled up at the safe house, yet another wheelchair by her side. An irrational urge to growl _We don't need that!_ rolled through Ken, but he stifled it. The only way he was strong enough to lift Aya by himself would be in a fireman's carry, and God only knew what that would do to the man's injuries. As it was, the redhead gave a low moan of pain when they shifted him into the chair, eyelids fluttering weakly as the drugs coursing through his system began to wear off. By his shoulder, Omi made a smothered noise in sympathy.

"I have a doctor waiting." Birman snapped. "He owes Kritiker, so we won't need to worry that he'll let anyone know about Abyssinian." No 'hello,' no 'glad you made it back.' Just a petite woman clad in clingy sky-blue vinyl and attitude. She turned away, entering the house through a bright rectangle of light that abruptly vanished as the door thumped closed.

Left behind, Ken glared sideways at Omi, daring him to comment. He gripped the chair's handles convulsively, torn by indecision. He didn't want some doctor, a _stranger_, laying hands on their partner. Even if his rational side understood that they needed the help, that Aya needed it. Because he was afraid to leave the wounded man in the care of someone who was not Weiss. But Yohji was already backing out of the drive, intent on returning the sedan to the drop point; it would be at least half an hour before he got back, and by then they ought to be deep into the rescue's debriefing. And he couldn't afford to miss that. Omi, ever the practical peacemaker, was the one who guessed at the fierce protectiveness that made the other boy freeze.

"It's okay, Ken-kun. Birman would never bring us someone dangerous." His light voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Ken shot him a quick frown, needing to get Aya safely inside, yet wanting to avoid the woman, too.

"I don't like her." he muttered angrily. "She's not Manx." That defensive declaration probably told Omi a whole lot more than he really wanted to, but it was the truth. There was a world of frustration and suspicion in it: What was Kritiker up to? Just how much did they know about Aya's disappearance and subsequent re-emergence during a police raid? _Are we being played?_

The blond teen met his gaze levelly. Somewhere behind the outwardly clueless, guileless blue was the sharpest mind and best tactician of their little group. Omi gave Ken a slight nod, just an inclination of his head. _I'll find out._

Then he was darting ahead, holding the western style front door open so that Ken could carefully maneuver the wheelchair through into the bright warmth of the safe house. Ken scowled fiercely and huffed, blowing a strand of dark hair off of his forehead. Instead of being happy that they had Aya back, he was letting himself get all stressed and pissy for no good cause. Even little things, like the split-level, modern styling of the house, were starting to get to him. It was no big deal that they had decided to turn the first floor den into a temporary bedroom, rather than subject their wounded partner to the discomfort of being carried upstairs to his usual quarters. It was just common sense, and besides, it would make it easier for them to watch over him during the day. So why was it bugging him so much? Why was he standing there on the threshold of the den, glaring at everything, and nothing?

"Come on, Ken-kun. It'll be okay; you'll see." A childishly thin hand closed on Ken's wrist. He blinked stupidly at the neat, short nails, registering a small white scar across the back of the tanned knuckles. Omi. Again. Forcing him to make yet another decision. He sighed inaudibly.

"Yeah, I know. Give me a hand, will you? I want to get him into bed before that doctor of Birman's gets in here."

"Sure." the boy chirped happily. He dropped Ken's wrist and bustled off, folding back the covers on the narrow twin bed that now occupied the middle of the room. Then he was back, slipping his arm beneath Aya's knees as Ken hooked his hands into the redhead's armpits. On a count of three, they lifted the limp body into bed.

_Aya's too light_, Ken thought worriedly. It was hard to tell under the added bulk of bandages, but what little of him that was visible under the hospital gown seemed far too thin to be healthy. Back at the hospital, they had been in too much of a hurry to pay close attention, but now, there was no avoiding the knowledge; Aya really was in terrible shape.

With shaking fingers, Ken brushed a strand of blood red hair from the older man's forehead. Neither playing pro soccer, nor his time as an assassin had prepared him for the stab of pure fear that pierced him. What if Aya died? They still didn't know what had happened to him, or the extent of his injuries, but even an idiot could tell that it had been bad. He had been cleaned up since the photo shown on TV had been taken, but under the swelling of his yellow and black cheek, and the scattering of band-aides, his face was gaunt. Omi nudged Ken out of the way, and automatically he obeyed, taking a step back as the boy smoothed a clean, fresh-smelling sheet and a soft, baby blue blanket up over the too-still form.

Birman's pet doctor was already waiting impatiently for them to leave. He was shifting from foot to foot in the hall outside the improvised sickroom, a nondescript man sporting short, iron gray hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. With that face, and his tidy white shirt and black suit, Dr. Nariakira would have been the perfect poster child for the virtues of being a responsible, stereotypically Japanese salary man. Ken hated him on sight. But at least the man seemed to know his stuff. He slid up alongside the bed and began taking Aya's vitals with practiced ease: pulse and blood pressure, and checking the dilation of his pupils with a tiny flashlight, rolling back a slack lid with a thumb and flicking the narrow beam into and out of Aya's line of sight. It wasn't until the doctor folded back the bedding that Omi had tucked so carefully around their teammate, and began drawing up the hem of his hospital gown, that the brunet jerked into motion. Ken's hard grip closed around the man's forearm, arresting him.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled.

Slanted, coal black eyes blinked in surprise. "His breathing sounds rather wet. I wish to listen to his lungs, in case there is the beginning of pneumonia. I also intend to listen to his heart. These are the preliminaries to a more thorough physical, depending upon what I find."

God, the man sounded as fussy as he looked, with a nasal but educated Kansai accent. Before Ken could say something to that effect, however, Omi's clear voice called his name from the living room. He let the doctor go with a small shove and stalked out the door.

The younger blond's grin was the first thing to register when he stomped into the chic, modern room. Omi was kneeling in the navy-blue couch that formed the nearer side of the grouping of furniture, leaning over its back. He energetically beckoned to Ken, smile widening impossibly. It was on the tip of the athlete's tongue to berate him, to ask how he could possibly be so happy with Aya so badly hurt, but a quiet chuckle followed by a cough drew his eye to the fireplace, and the slim, red-haired woman standing in front of it.

"Manx!" Ken whooped. The surge of relief he felt was so sharp that he instantly understood Omi's reaction. Without thinking, he bounded across the intervening space, and swept the slim woman up in a bone crushing hug. "Oh, Manx! You have no idea how glad we are to see you!" Laughing, she pried ineffectually at his encircling arms, finally settling for a light slap to his jaw that was nearly a caress.

"Well! You were never this happy to see me when I brought you mission briefs."

"Speaking of which-- " Omi cut in eagerly. "Did you find out anything about Aya-kun?" He scooted over to make room as Ken dropped onto the couch beside him. The woman rolled her eyes and struck a pose in front of the fireplace. She looked just as she always had, from the thick waves of her shoulder-length hair, to her short red suit, and on down to her ankle socks and strappy high heels. Heels that Ken had reason to know were just as lethal as his tiger-claws, if she let loose with a spinning, powerhouse kick.

"Find out? Aside from the fact that he's been compromised? Not a hell of a lot." Birman's waspish tone broke into the conversation as their other handler joined them. She seated herself in a matching armchair, crossing elegantly long legs under the brief hem of her form-fitting, sky-blue vinyl skirt. Ken had a brief distracted moment to wonder if looking good in a mini-skirt was one of the prerequisites for the job. If Yohji had been there, he would probably have let loose an appreciative wolf-whistle.

"Ne, Birman-san," Omi's chided. "Aya-kun would never let anything slip about us. He wouldn't talk. Never."

"_Abyssinian_," she shot back, "Would have had no say in the matter. He was in the hands of the police for over thirty hours."

Angrily, Ken opened his mouth to protest that they had thrown together the rescue in the least amount of time that they could, and had done a damned good job at it, too. Manx beat him to it, shooting the other woman a quelling glare. "Birman, all things considered, I'm impressed at how quickly Weiss was able to retrieve him. However..." Her gaze swept over the two young men, the companionable, friendly woman of moments earlier lost to professional calculation. "It isn't so much a matter of his talking that concerns us. But rather, that the police had ample time to collect tissue and blood sample, fingerprints, and whatever else they could from him. Even if he was unconscious the whole time – which we don't know for a fact – they would still have had the opportunity to learn far too much."

"Too much about what?" another voice asked. Yohji's hip bumped the front door closed with a muted thud and he ambled over to join them. Ken snorted softly as the man's eyes ran predictably over the two women, taking in long legs and short skirts. Youji slid him a sideways glance, smirking, but opted to hold his peace as he perched on the arm of the blue sofa. Omi was the one who glanced up, pixie features scrunched in open concern, and answered the lanky man's original question.

"The police. They know about Aya-kun, now."

"Hn. So what's the big deal? Just make it all disappear. My prints were on file, too, from back when I got my PI's license. Kritiker took care of it."

Manx rolled her eyes in exasperation. "The difference, Balinese, is that you had already been declared dead, and your information had been moved into the inactive files _before _we took that action. Abyssinian, on the other hand, may well be their only living lead in an extremely active and high profile case. The authorities are not likely to let us sweep _him_ under a rug. The truth is that he _is_ becoming a liability."

"No!" Omi burst out. He was on his feet, turning frantically between Manx and his partners. "You can't say that. Aya would never let _us_ down. It's wrong for us to turn against him. There has to be a way."

The annoyance on their handler's pretty features softened, and Ken was reminded that she had known the boy longer than any of them, had practically raised him to be a Hunter. She spoke gently, "Bombay... Omi... Then you also know that he would never want to put any of you at risk. I'm not proposing to terminate his employment, I just think it may be time for him to move on again, into a different line of work. Something a little less 'noticeable' than Weiss Kreuz."

Ken was sure that he looked every bit as stunned as the kid did; for one thing, he could feel his mouth open and close, with nothing coming out. He knew, of course, that Aya had belonged to another team before coming to them, was even vaguely aware that before _that_ something terrible had happened to the ones who had trained him, not long after Kritiker had first taken him in. Nobody liked to talk about it, but enough tidbits had been allowed to slip out and they all added up to Aya already having a past with the organization. And Ken wasn't sure how much more slack the redhead was likely to get.

Surprisingly, it was Yohji who drawled, "Or maybe we should make it so that the cops have no reason to be interested? By solving their case for them? What do you say, girls, are we up for a little detective work, or what?"

A rather peremptory cough drew five sets of eyes around to the mouth of the first floor hallway, stopping dead a pointless argument over how Aya could possibly have ended up in Tanagawa. Even though he already had their undivided attention, the doctor standing there fussily cleared his throat a second time, and rapped his knuckles on the clipboard that he carried. "Well. The twenty-four hours that he spent in the hospital did a great deal toward stabilizing your young man's condition, and the IV that he's on is making good progress against his dehydration. I would prefer that he had remained there longer...?" He peered at them in turn, shrugged, and let the suggestion drop unfinished. "Be that as it may, then. Allow me to give you my report. His initial injuries stem from a severe beating two to three weeks ago. While the majority of the contusions are healing on their own, there was some more serious damage that had been left untreated until his arrival at the hospital. They are as follows: little finger on the right hand, broken in two places, right wrist dislocated. This is consistent with his having been forcibly disarmed during a fight. He has wounds on his shoulder, right side, and inner thigh. The shoulder appears to be the result of a gunshot. I am unable to ascertain the causes of the other two. However, the course of antibiotics that the hospital started him on should be very helpful in combating any infections resulting from those, and also the mild case of pneumonia he is suffering from. The congestion in his bronchial tubes appears to stem as much from a reaction to where ever he was held, as to illness. The last item on the list, however, is the most serious. He suffered a skull fracture--"

"His cheek?" Yohji demanded. Catching the expressions around the living room that ranged from darkly amused to incredulous, to outraged, he added defensively, "What?" Ken snorted, while Omi rolled his eyes and fought down a grin.

"Ne, Yohji-kun, let Nariakira-sensei finish his sentence. He was getting there." teased the boy. Yohji was always so easy-going... until something seized his interest. Then he was like a dog with a bone, and Omi could practically hear the annoyed growl that that behavior would draw from Aya once he was back on his feet. Aya hated being the center of attention – especially that kind.

"No, I was not referring to his cheek." the doctor admitted. "That damage is comparatively recent – not more than a week old – and looks worse than it is. He probably won't even require any reconstructive measures. No, what I'm referring to is a slightly depressed area in the rear of his skull. Without access to the appropriate diagnostic equipment, I can't begin to hazard a guess on its severity." Nariakira scowled at each member of his audience in turn, clearly indicating that he saw the lack as being entirely their fault, then presented his clipboard to Manx with a tight bow. "If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it if you arrange a ride home for me? I will, of course, return in the morning."

The senior handler nodded shortly. "Of course. Thank you for coming, Nariakira-sensei." She offered him a tight, barely humorous smile, and drew her cell phone from her jacket and quickly tapped in a page. "If you would care to go to the front door, my driver will be with you in a moment."

Ken opened his mouth to comment, but the younger boy beside him jabbed him sharply in the ribs. Startled, the soccer player rubbed the sore spot and shut up, realizing that there were things that were best kept in the family, and for all that the doctor was on the Kritiker payroll, he really wasn't one of them. When the front door had finally closed behind the man, Omi again beat him to it, bursting out angrily and unintentionally echoing the older boy's thoughts. "Manx-san! Why did it take so long to locate Aya-kun and bring him home? The police shouldn't have been the ones to find him, we should have. He's one of _us_."

Frowning, she shook her head, answering with resignation, "Bombay, we've been over this. You know as much as I do. We couldn't find him, because there was nothing to find. In a sense, it was pure luck that the police stumbled over him, seeing as they were after under-age prostitutes and run-aways, not an operative of Kritiker."

_Pure luck..._ Ken shivered when a nasty feeling ran down his spine. He didn't like the sound of that, much, didn't like to think how close they had come to never finding Fujimiya Aya: swordsman, assassin, and partner. The little blond that vibrated against his side had literally scoured the Internet until he had fallen asleep at his keyboard, and done it not once, but night after night. Yohji and Ken, himself, had been back over the route between their communal home and the last known places that Aya had visited, checking and rechecking coffee shops and bums, cabs, gas stations, and quickie one-stop grocers. Anything. Any place that he might have stopped. Anyone who might have registered the distinctively handsome man. Normally, they all cursed the fact that it was next to impossible for Aya to slip through a crowd unnoticed, but this time, it had been their only hope.

And the hope had turned to dust. When he had failed to return from his "vacation," they had all started looking, but the trail was already days cold. There had been nothing to find.

"You said it was a high-profile case that the police were working on?" Ken asked abruptly. "What's so high-profile about teenage prostitutes?"

"Nothing. Except when one of them turns out to be the grand-daughter of a member of the Prime Minister's cabinet." snapped Birman. She sounded more than a little put-out, and sourly re-crossed her legs. Yohji's appreciative gaze followed the movement intently, but he still managed to pay attention to the conversation.

"So, the big-shot had the police tracking the kid down? And that's why they decided to bust the whorehouse?" the older hunter murmured. His lazy smile grew into a smirk as the handler scowled at him but defiantly resisted the urge to tug her skirt down. Ignoring the exchange, Manx nodded.

"Yes. The place was nothing special. Just a small time operation that wasn't worth anyone's time to shut down. Their bad luck that the girl they picked up on the street was a somebody, not a nobody." The quiet words were derisive. It was hard to tell if she was mocking the whorehouse's bad luck, or that of the other runaway children who didn't rate a full-out police assault. "Of course, rather than looking into why the stupid girl ran away in the first place, gramps is up in arms and demanding justice. That they found Aya being held there seems to have just added fuel to the fire."

"Why?" Omi asked curiously. "Why didn't they just assume that he was a customer who got roughed up?"

Manx shook her head. "I have no idea. Absolutely none. But he seems to have importance, and that's going to be a problem for us."

Gloomy silence descended on the five of them, until the boy visibly shook himself. He wasn't the one responsible for research in their little band for nothing. Instinct said that there was something there, just waiting to be nosed out, and that he was just the guy to do it. "Okay, we're missing something. We're just going to have to go back through what we've got until we find it. Birman-san, I'd like to see the mission data from the assignment you gave Aya-kun. Please."

"You'd what?" Incredulous, the woman reared back. Her blue-tinted black hair seemed to bristle out into a cloud, as if it could sense that Omi had just declared that the sun rose in the west. Or something at least as ridiculous. "You know I can't do that. All reports to Kritiker are kept confidential, and are only shared on a need-to-know basis."

"Well," Omi said reasonably. "**_I_** need to know. And it would be helpful if the rest of our group could look it over, too. An extra person might be just what it takes to spot the inconsistency that will give us a break."

At the obstinate set to Birman's mouth, Ken's hand tightened into a fist and he felt his temper slip another notch down the path toward pounding the woman into a paste. He didn't especially care that she was a Kritiker agent, and that they were supposed to follow her orders; Birman made his hackles rise, and this felt like just the excuse he needed to make that point with her. To his surprise, it was the tall playboy, Yohji, who leaned over, resting a gentle hand on his clenched fingers. He drawled at the woman, "Hey, what can it hurt? We do some of your work for you, and we get to find out what happened to Aya-kun. It's a win-win, right?"

"I fail to see the relevance of Abyssinian's last assignment. It was simply an intelligence-gathering exercise, and he was only pulled in at the last minute because the team that it would normally have gone to already had too much on their plates. It wasn't even anything that required him to get security clearance." she replied sullenly.

"Then you won't mind letting us take a peek, will you?" The older man gave her a winning smile, pulling off the sunglasses perched on top of his head and twirling them idly between his fingers. Then the smile slipped, showing a bit of the fangs beneath, and he continued more softly. "Just in case there was anything that didn't make it into the transcript? By accident, of course."

The effect was more than a little unnerving, and Birman looked to her senior uncertainly. Manx was silent. Finally, the dark haired woman shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter. The mission is over and done with, anyway." Her attention shifted to the blond teenager seated in the center of the couch, flanked by his two friends. "Bombay, hook your laptop up to the TV."

Omi jumped to comply, fetching the battered carry bag that held his equipment. The living room had a sleek plasma screen TV that was nearly double the size of the one back home, and his fingers itched to play with its controls. But this was hardly the time. It was too rare a chance to get a glimpse of what the other units within Kritiker were involved with. Weiss Kreuz might be an elite team of assassins, but they were far from being the only resource at their employer's command. He unrolled a patch cord and hooked his computer up to the TV. Birman nudged him aside, however, when he attempted to log on, and her slim fingers danced across the keys, flashing slick, dark violet polish at them. The boy watched greedily as windows flickered by, opening and closing rapidly, until Aya's familiar low voice came from the TV's speakers. She set the laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch and retreated to her chair.

It never failed to surprise and amuse the other Weiss hunters that such a deep, rich voice should be matched with Aya's deceptively slight figure. While nearly as tall as Yohji, he was all whipcord muscle and hidden steel, with only his graceful, confident movements to give the game away to outsiders. As they listened, Aya ran through his pre-mission equipment check, recording date and time.

Omi was the one who gave a tiny, involuntary start. At Ken's questioning murmur, he leaned over and groused, "They gave him all the brand new, miniaturized stuff. Jerks." On the other side of the boy, still half sitting on the arm of the couch, Yohji snorted. Trust their tech to get bent out of shape over something like that. The equipment that Omi regarded with such jealousy included a tiny, sensitive mic that fit invisibly inside Aya's shirt collar, ready to be activated by his barely vocalized whisper. They were all practiced at the soft speech that was almost ventriloquism. The redhead would have worn a receiver tucked into one ear to go with the mic, and that was the piece that really made the youngest Weiss salivate; it was smaller than the best hearing aid, and had incredibly clear fidelity and double the range of their own equipment.

After a long moment, the screen of the big TV lit as well, Aya's digital camera coming on line. They caught a glimpse of the man himself as he passed his hotel room's mirror, almost unrecognizable in an exquisitely tailored slate-gray suit instead of his usual, ugly orange sweater and chinos. Birman's voice-over confirmed that everything was go, and that they would begin recording when the hunter left his car at the target destination. His quiet acquiescence ended the test segment.

A new time stamp jumped onto the display and Aya's sharply creased pants leg passed through their field of vision as he slid out of his Porche, and a valet slid in. Yohji grunted "Wow..." enviously as Aya strode past the entrance to an opulent restaurant and a casino on his way to a rose-marble lobby with a bank of elevators. A uniformed attendant punched in a code, and the slim assassin was on his way up.

They watched his ghostly reflection in the smoked glass walls as the glittering cityscape slid by outside. The sheen of a polished cotton shirt in the same exact slate shade as his suit drew out the blue in his violet eyes, and mellowed the fierce red of his hair. Gleaming rivers of headlights crisscrossed below, and in the distance the distinctive form of the Tokyo Tower rose into the skyline. Blue-violet eyes finally focused on his reflection, and long fingers tugged at collar and lapels, minutely adjusting the drape of his jacket. Then, Aya turned away from the fantastic, superimposed view of city and flesh just as the elevator doors hissed open. Ken was surprised by the lump in his throat, unable to decide if it was out of appreciation for beauty that had nothing to do with gender, or because there was no way to warn this past Aya so that he could avoid becoming the present Aya who lay unconscious less than twenty-five feet away. Either way, the sensation made him want to cry.

The feeling of dread stuck with Ken as, for the next two hours, he and his friends fought to stay awake while the redhead moved through an expansive, posh suite, quietly identifying pieces of art while the camera he wore captured the faces of the other attendees. The slim man ignored the fact that he was getting almost as many looks as the items that were up for sale. A small bronze sculpture of a cowboy on a bucking bronco was listed off as a Remington, and a tiny, swirling miniature of painted sunflowers was described as being by Van Gogh. Birman's reply agreed with the assessment of the latter, saying "Yes, that's one of the ones Interpol has listed as stolen. Plan to bid on it tomorrow." Aya's quiet grunt acknowledged the order, and he moved on to another grouping. Even though he kept his interactions to a minimum, it was obvious that he knew his way around a classy, well-heeled gathering like that, that he had the manners to blend in, even if he came across as socially challenged when he was with his teammates. And it was equally obvious that he was intimately familiar with art and artists, identifying schools and time periods with ease. It was no secret that the quiet man preferred reading over more social activities, and they were all used to relying on Aya's ability to rapidly assess a situation and think of a solution. But that was a far cry from seeing him move confidently through the crowded reception, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Abruptly, it hit the soccer player that _this_ was the world that their teammate really belonged in – not the flower shop, and definitely not the blood-splattered darkness. Ken felt a twinge of something suspiciously like jealousy.

Aya's soft speech broke into Ken's distracted thoughts; he had pushed open the swinging door to a small lounge that was all forest and moss green carpet and walls, and glittering brass light fixtures. "Birman, I'm going unavailable for a few minutes. Camera off." The digital image ceased just as Aya shoved another door, briefly revealing a slice of cool green marble floor, and the corner of a counter stacked with real fabric towels. Ken snickered; even Superman had to make pit stops.

Without the redhead's vocalizations to keep it on, the auditory pick up cut out as well. Not that the bored soccer player minded; he lived with the man, for God's sake, and knew more about his finicky personal habits than he had ever wanted to. Yawning, Ken slid down farther in the couch cushions, outstretched legs bumping the coffee table. He yawned again, cracking his jaw this time, and glanced at his wristwatch. It was on the high side of 2:00 am, and the deadly dull recording had yet to yield any sort of pay dirt. It was starting to look as if Birman had been right, and they were idiots for insisting on prying.

An involuntary noise reactivated the recording, and the mic was picking up an unfamiliar voice, distorted by the bouncing echoes of the washroom's hard surfaces. It was definitely male, and very likely foreign. There was something about the cadence of the words and the way the accent fell wrong that made it sound American. But that wasn't what really made them sit up and take notice; it was the warm, intimate baritone that sounded like a caress, saying, "Well... hel-lo, gorgeous."

That beauty and elegance had attracted someone else's attention, too.

They gave almost identical groans of half disgust, and half humor. It was a long-standing joke that Momoe had hired the four young men solely on the basis of their looks when she had decided to retire from actively running the flower shop. The truth of it was that no one would seriously believe that four cute guys working as florists could also be the crack team of assassins that slipped without fail through the fingers of any and all opponents. It was a part of their cover that Yohji was the handsome lady-killer, that Ken was the wholesome athlete – just the sort that the matrimony-minded girls wanted to bring home to meet the folks, and that Omi was the cute, sweet kid. Of course, Aya was in a league of his own: crimson and snow, a rigidly controlled, volcanic temper beneath a frigid exterior. It was no wonder that people stared at him, even if it was the last thing that he wanted.

Most of the time, the man was either oblivious, or annoyed by the reactions he got. But this time, there was a faintly panicky edge as he murmured, "Excuse me..." But the stranger wasn't going to let him go so easily.

"Well, look at that... You're Fujimiya's kid, aren't you?" The voice, now clearly American, and amused, cut across the background noise of running water as Aya hastily finished at the sink. There was the scuff and crisp sound of hard soled shoes on marble as their owner approached. Yohji and Ken exchanged alarmed glances; aside from the nightmare of being recognized by someone from their previous lives – a worry that was never far from any of the assassins - they had never heard anyone make reference to Aya's parents. Certainly, their teammate never had.

Aya growled something indistinct to the effect of, "You must be mistaken, my name is Fujita Masahiro," but the stranger rode over it.

"Nah, you're Fujimiya-san's kid. I remember the first time he brought you to a company picnic; there was a hell of a lot of speculation over whether you were really his, with your coloring. You didn't look anything like him, or your mom." The voice got more intimate, lower and more confidential, suggesting that its master was leaning into Aya's personal space. "So what are you doing here? I heard your family's assets got seized. I know the embezzlement case never went to trial, but murder-suicide is a damned strong admission of guilt."

_Embezzlement? Murder-sucide?? What the fuck--? _Identical looks of stunned consternation passed between the three Weiss members on the couch. Ken noted abstractedly that neither Manx nor Birman seemed surprised. _Of course not. They already know everything about all our pasts._ But it was damned worrisome that while the red haired woman's brows drew together into a thoughtful frown, Birman's poker face never wavered. That meant that Manx had presumably not listened to the recordings, had only read the mission transcripts, while as primary, the other handler would have been there, would have heard every word as it was spoken. That thought was confirmed when the recording continued and Manx's sharp brows flew up in astonishment. All of this was news to her.

"So... You're here under an assumed name, and you definitely don't have the money to be here alone... Who's your sugar-daddy, gorgeous?" Friendly, in the slightly condescending, arrogant way of someone who had the upper hand and knew it. The sound was low, and breathy, coming bare inches away from the mic in Aya's collar.

_Oh, so not good._ In his mind's eye, Ken could practically see the way the fine skin would have tightened around Aya's almond shaped eyes as they narrowed, the way his soft mouth would have thinned even more than usual with the anger. "My father didn't- " Aya choked, swallowing whatever he had been about to say, but the barely-there tremor in his voice screamed at them. Whoever this man was, he was someone that Aya didn't want to see, was in fact afraid to see. And the things that he was raking up were tearing their self-contained teammate to shreds. With an effort, Aya controlled himself, bottling every bit of emotion to continue in a flat tone. "I remember you. Roy Benson. You were with one of the big brokerage houses... Price Waterhouse?"

Benson made a pleased sound. "Very good. Although, it's Price Waterhouse Coopers, now. I rode out the merger pretty well."

Aya went on as if he hadn't heard a thing. "My father said you were a real son of a bitch."

That elicited a bark of laughter. "Then I'm sure that he also told you that I'm used to getting whatever I want. And right now... that might be you. I won't tell our hosts about you, if you play nice...?" The words slid into an interrogative, but they were so close that Aya's inarticulate noise of protest was drowned out by a rustle of cloth and a moist exhalation. "Hmm. You do taste as good as you look. If you play nice, I might forget to wonder about how you got in here. Because I'm sure that the people running this little shindig would have something to say about you being here under false pretenses."

"What do you want?" Flat, defeated, steeling himself against the worst, thinking furiously about how to salvage the situation... the nuances packed into the four, clipped words were pure Aya-speak.

"Me?" Soft, victorious laughter. "I want to see you put that pretty mouth to good use. I want to see what you look like with my cock in your mouth, down on your knees-- " There was a sharp sound, and an abortive cry that sounded like Aya trying to squirm free without doing anything that didn't fit with his cover, and failing miserably. Then there was harsh panting against the mic, and the rasping buzz of a zipper. "Oh, yeah... like that. Just... like... that..."

The wet, rhythmic sounds were almost worse without the visuals. Ken had an irrational urge to cover the kid's ears. It wasn't like Omi had never gotten stuck listening to other people having sex before. God knew that as the team's technophile, he ran surveillance on targets as easily as walking and talking. But somehow, this was different. This was _Aya_, for crying out loud, and if there was one thing that they all knew about the redhead, it was that he absolutely _hated_ having anyone touch him.

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ. _Aya!_" shouted Yohji. Agitated, he sprang from the couch, whirled, and came within a heartbeat of flinging Omi's laptop into the TV screen. Without thinking, Ken tackled the older man, wrapping himself around forearm and wrist before he could do anything stupid. Shorter and more compact, Ken probably still weighed in at about the same as the lanky blond, and he used that to his advantage, forcing Yohji to sit back down.

Omi snaked an arm past the struggling pair and tapped the keyboard to pause the playback. His face was beet red, and he couldn't bear to look at anyone else in the room, even though he was thinking a hundred miles a minute. The blond teen shrugged helplessly. It wasn't just that he was younger than his partners – at seventeen, he was well aware that even Ken had a couple-three solid years on him – but it was because he looked even younger than he was. There was no hiding his small size, or the fact that his thin, gawky build made him out to be all miss-matched parts: skinny legs and too big feet, knobby knees and childishly large eyes in an almost girlishly cute face that had yet to feel the kiss of a razor. It was just so fucking _unfair_.

But, at the same time, he had been an assassin longer than any of the others, having grown up in the trade. He was smart, and skilled, and damned good at it. Frowning, the boy gathered his resolution around him. "We need to listen to the rest of it; to find out just how sour the mission went. I mean, it's possible that this was just some random encounter, and that Aya-kun pulled it off."

"Omi..." Yohji spoke his name with a heart-broken sob, and the kid's eyes jerked to meet his, blue gone suspiciously bright. Their gazes locked for a long minute, and it was the older man who looked away first. Yoji scrubbed a hand over his face, then back through his hair, tucking jaw length strands behind an ear. He sighed, defeated. "Yeah, you're right. Besides, this is all ancient history. Why should we get bent out of shape over something that happened weeks ago?"

_Because it matters._ Ken answered silently. He relaxed his hold on Yohji's other arm, and gave the man an irresistible tug back into a quick hug. It was funny that Yohji, who was so casual about sex when it came to himself, should be the one to get all bent out of shape when it came to the rest of them. The tall blond was like that; quick to wear his heart out on his sleeve when it came to taking care of his friends. Over Yohji's shoulder, Ken sought out Manx, and noted the pained expression on her face. But that bitch, Birman, was as blank as ever, although he could swear that he saw the beginnings of uneasiness under her mask. It was obvious that there was more to come, and that they weren't going to like it.

Omi's lips thinned resolutely, and he clicked on 'play' again. Grimly, they waited until the mix of guttural panting and cursing, and obscene, wet slurping and sucking hit a crescendo – _Remind me to **never** wear my mic right **there**!_ Ken thought frantically – and died into a satisfied moan. "God, you're _good_, kid..." The baritone was breathless, and high. Aya made a harsh, gagging sound, spitting into a sink and then covering the sounds with running water.

"Here." There was an indistinct, plastic rattle on the counter top. "I'm staying at the Imperial. Room 708. Come see me when the viewing is done."

"I'm not--"

"Yes, you are." Benson said calmly. "We've already established that there's someone that you didn't want knowing who you really are, or you wouldn't have gone down on me. Be there." The implied threat was confident. The listeners heard an angry, choked sputter from Aya, and they knew with sickening certainty exactly what was going through the redhead's mind: _Whatever it takes. Don't jeopardize the mission._

The American's voice resumed, still filled with an almost gentle, musing calm. "You give really great head, kid. I'd be interested to see if you're just as good at other things. Till later." Footsteps, a jaunty, almost swaggering beat against the hard floor, withdrew. The door swished.

"Birman. Get me the profile on him." Beneath the unmistakable, hoarse rasp of Aya's voice was rage.

"Negative." The handler snapped back. "Benson is not, repeat NOT, part of the mission."

"He knows who I- "

"All he knows is your name, Abyssinian. So long as he thinks you're just a fucktoy who puts out, he has no reason to tell anyone else. So drop it and focus on your objectives."

The only sound from the speaker was a low growl, punctuated by the sound of a muffled blow. Aya had punched the wall. Then there was the faint swish of the swinging door as he returned to his post.


	2. Chapter 2: Flesh

**_Author's Notes:_**

_Thank you to the kind reviewers. I hope you continue to find "Reflections" to be worth your time._

_Enjoy!_

_L.A. Mason_

* * *

_**Reflections: Flesh**__Chapter Two _

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

Ken lay on his back staring at the ceiling, feeling more than a little sick to his stomach. It wasn't the unaccustomed shimmy of the waterbed either; rather, his brain was running in tight little circles playing back the sounds of Aya in the echoing bathroom with the American, and conjuring worse later, in a strange hotel room. Part of him wondered if Aya had enjoyed it, and part of him was just plain sick at the idea of what their partner was willing to do in the name of the mission. He groaned and dragged himself out of bed, giving up at the pretense of trying to sleep. Even if the man wasn't conscious to answer questions, Ken just knew that he'd get more rest if he camped out in a chair in the den. Surrendering to the idea, he stripped a blanket from the bed, wound it toga-like around his body and flung the ends up over his shoulder.

As he neared the bottom of the half flight of stairs feeding into the public spaces of the big house, something made the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck. It wasn't just that he didn't like being in a strange place instead of at home where they belonged; other things were wrong, too. Dimmed light spilled from the living room as he padded past, instinctively slipping from sometimes over-exuberant, often klutzy, sports-crazy adolescence into his guise of the hunter, Siberian. The girls who liked to hang around the flower shop, or to watch when he coached the neighborhood kids in soccer, would have found it hard to reconcile his focused hunger with his usual cheer. The only one spookier was Omi, who managed to still look like his normal sweet self even when he was cutting someone's throat. In a way, the kid's innocence was even more unnerving.

Ken's eyes took in the half-familiar, shadowed shape of the living room's fireplace, and the three-sided grouping of couch and chairs that faced the angle between the massive TV and the floor to ceiling sliding glass doors that were blank with darkness. Beyond that glass lay a garden that in daylight was bland and westernized, like pretty much the entire rest of the house. Personally, he would have been happier with something more traditional, all tatami and shoji, and Ken suspected that the same held true for his teammates, only this was what Kritiker had offered, and one didn't argue with Kritiker. But the one good thing about the house was that it was wired to the gills with first rate electronics, including some security devices that Omi had admitted that even he would have trouble getting past. It was good to know that there was stuff that the kid couldn't circumvent; there were damned few people better than him. And, better still to know that the technology was protecting _them_, for a change.

There was no sign of whatever it was that had him spooked, and the soccer player bit back a groan as he prowled the room. Manx's people held the perimeter of the house's grounds. It would be stupid to go out there... so why was he thinking about it? Better to just follow his original impulse, and bunk down by Aya. Having tangible proof that the elusive man really was back would help calm his nerves.

His nerves were probably ninety percent of his problem, anyway.

Things had broken down pretty quickly earlier, after discovering what Birman considered to be within the normal parameters of an assignment. That Aya had presumably gone along with it, didn't help. Not at all.

Over the top of Omi's head, the remaining two Weiss had exchanged horrified looks: _Do you think he--? Yeah, for the sake of the mission... _Ew. And Aya would have, too, no matter how much he hated the physical. He shunned giving and taking as weaknesses, never quite grasping that hating contact was a kind of vulnerability, too.

The smaller blond boy had caught their expressions, and growled as he slapped at his laptop, again pausing the playback. He jabbed each of them in the ribs, hitting the spots still sore from his earlier assault, but that violence was a pale copy of the glare that he leveled first at Manx, then at Birman. "This isn't in the transcript, is it?" he snapped accusingly. "_Did_ Aya go see the bastard?"

The dark haired woman shrugged, the movement elegantly rolling her shoulders inside her tight jacket. If she wore a holster, it had to be nestled at the small of her back, because there was absolutely no tell-tale bulge under her arm. "I would assume so." She answered calmly. "Abyssinian gave the actual auction a green light the next evening, and it went off flawlessly. He stayed the hell away from Benson, but the American didn't make much of an effort to approach him, either."

"Birman." Manx's clipped tones cut across whatever it was that fought to get past Omi's lips. "Was Benson the only out-of-the-ordinary contact?"

"Yes, Ma'am." The automatic courtesy of the response confirmed one long-held suspicion; Manx did outrank Birman. "When Abyssinian failed to check in, and we couldn't contact him, Benson was at the top of our list. But he had left for the States three days before our last contact with Abyssinian, and he hasn't left his company's home-base in Houston, Texas, since. Given where Aya was recovered, I don't see how there could be a connection."

The three assassins all noted that the handler had slipped up and called their teammate by name. It was probably the most human – or at least the most uncalculated – thing that the harsh woman had done during their acquaintanceship. Manx was no more warm or cuddly, really, but at least with her they occasionally caught flashes of a deep, proprietary pride, and affection. Especially where Omi was concerned. They all knew that the red-haired woman and the elusive Persia had practically raised their youngest teammate, and he hadn't turned out too badly, all things being equal.

And it was the boy who rubbed a hand backwards through his hair and sighed. "So, this is a dead end?"

Birman nodded shortly. "The auction is basically more of the same. As a part of his cover, Abyssinian bid on – and lost on – a couple of pieces. He was never overly aggressive. Benson appeared to have lost interest in him, and was focused exclusively on the artwork that he wanted. We didn't observe anything else untoward."

"Either night?" Omi persisted.

"Either night."

"Well... that's that, then." mumbled Yohji. He hung his head backwards over the rim of the couch, staring thoughtfully at the coffered beams of the ceiling overhead. "Maybe it really _was_ just random bad luck? Aya was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and got snatched?"

"Oh, come on!" Ken surged to his feet, nearly tripping in the tangle of cables. Omi grabbed for his precious laptop, giving his clumsiness a reproachful sigh. Oblivious, the brunet paced angrily to the far side of the room and whirled. "If it was some random asshole, we would have found a pile of random body parts, and Aya would have been at home cleaning that damned sword of his. _NO_ basic stalker would ever have been able to get the jump on our Aya."

Yohji grinned at the possessive phrase, but found that he had to agree. He'd come perilously close to the pile of body parts state, himself, the few times he had startled their newest member. And, it was damned hard to do, too. Aya not only had the proverbial eyes in the back of his head, he seemed to have them everywhere else, as well. "Okay, kiddo. You've made your point. But if we rule out everything connected to the auction, we don't have much left."

"Um, how about Schwartz? Is there anything to connect them to Tanagawa?" asked Omi diffidently. He had checked, and re-checked everything he could find about the other team in the early days, when Aya had first come up missing, but that was before they had had a location to work with.

Manx shook her head slowly. "No. Intel turned up _nothing_ related to Tanagawa. As far as we can tell, there is no link between Abyssinian, Weiss, or even Kritiker, and that place. The Hot Body was just a second-rate brothel run by a couple of local entrepreneurs. It wasn't big enough, or successful enough to have been worth anyone's time to gobble up. If they hadn't been stupid or unlucky enough to pick up a run-away that mattered, we probably still wouldn't have heard of them."

And that had been pretty much all she had been willing to say. They had argued some more – and Ken flushed to remember that he had been the one doing most of the shouting, his volatile temper hopelessly frayed by that point – until Manx had gotten disgusted and told them all to get lost in no uncertain terms. By then, Omi's bright blue eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, and Yohji had given up paying attention to the prohibition against smoking and was running through his pack of cigarettes like water through a sieve, turning the air hazy blue with smoke. Birman had waved away the fumes and the yelling with increasing annoyance until she was finally fed up enough to stalk out. And that had been that.

Except that Ken couldn't sleep, no matter that he was dead dog tired.

He scanned the silent premises one last time, retreating in a silent, crab-wise walk that made it so that he didn't have to turn his back on the open expanse of the living room until he was safely into the corridor leading toward the improvised sickroom. The door opened with a barely heard sigh of hinges and displaced air, allowing the compact athlete to slip inside.

The other times they had stayed at this house, the den had been a favorite room for all of them, but for Aya especially. Maybe, that was why they had opted to set him up in there? It was a smaller, and more intimate and, well... 'homey' space than the rest of the sprawling structure. There were only a few examples of the expensive, institutional-abstract paintings, and those were small ones. Most of the wall space was occupied by book cases that were filled with a pretty haphazard jumble of books that looked as if they had actually been read. Unfortunately, the small sofa and a recliner had had to be removed to made space for the bed and some other hospital-type equipment, like the IV stand that hovered by Aya's shoulder, and the loss kind of spoiled the feel of the room.

Someone, probably Omi since the teen had been the last one to check up on their partner, had left the halogen desk lamp on low, twisting the articulated arm around so that it shone on a patch of beige wall behind. In the diffuse light, the man occupying the bed at the room's center looked more wan and ghost-like than usual, even his dark wine-red hair dimmed to a sorry maroon. But it did nothing to hide the impressive array of yellows and purples spreading from beneath his bandages, the colors too vivid against the stark white of the gauze. Hesitantly, Ken approached. He reached out and tentatively brushed back a strand of the hair that clung limply to the older man's temple, noting sadly that someone had given him a brutally efficient haircut, trimming his bangs to an even length and sheering off the long strands that normally hung down along the lines of his throat. It was too bad; one of the most intriguing things about Aya was his hair, and not just its color, either. There was something about the way the haphazard strands had fallen across his forehead, and the way he left portions long enough to caress his collar bones, while the rest barely covered the nape of his neck, that was damned sexy for such an oblivious type. Well, there was no figuring the swordsman out, that was for sure.

Automatically trying to shake the unsettling thought from his brain, Ken checked on the IV bag that hung on its stand next to the bed. The fluid level was such that there would be no need to change the pack until well into the next morning, something that Omi would probably take care of. He might be the most junior in age, but the petit blond had proven remarkably adept at the medical end of things. He could stitch up a wound without turning pale over the blood and gore, and had a knack for things like finding a vein with a needle. A slight movement dragged Ken's attention back to the bed's occupant and off of his musings on Omi and his skills.

Aya's eyes were open, shadow-soft blue-violet in the dim light, fixed thoughtfully on the regular grid of beams and space that made up the ceiling. Ken drew in breath to speak, to demand if he was all right, but before he could, the blank eyes again drifted shut of their own accord. There was no change to the man's even breathing, leaving his bewildered teammate to wonder if Aya had even been truly awake. He supposed he must have muttered the thought out loud, because the heap of blankets in the den's only comfortable chair stirred and mumbled "Probably not..."

"Omi? Is that you?" Ken guessed, figuring that the team's self-appointed medic wouldn't have wanted to leave his patient alone.

"Mmph." The pile squirmed around until a sleep-tousled head, followed by a slender arm clad in a ratty red sweatshirt popped out. The kid stretched and yawned, looking endearingly young, more like twelve than the seventeen he actually was. "So... you couldn't sleep... either." At the brunet's baffled grunt, Omi gestured vaguely at another lump cocooned snuggly in blankets on the floor in the lee of Aya's bed. There was just enough wavy, dark honey-blond hair sticking out for Ken to identify it as the remaining Weiss hunter. He felt like going over and kicking Yohji for sneaking downstairs without him.

Omi unwound himself from the chair and scrubbed the palms of both hands up his face. Muffled by them, he said, "Aya-kun hasn't really woken up, but I don't think it'll be too much longer."

"Oh." Relieved, Ken sat down on the floor next to him, leaning casually against the boy's leg. "That's good, right? I mean, he has to wake up."

Amused, Omi leaned down and rumpled his hair affectionately. There was no condescension in the gesture, or in his words. "Yes, it's good. I was worried he would stay in a coma because of his head. But, I've been thinking, and I think I've got a way we can find out what happened without waiting for him to wake up."

The older boy blinked, caught off-guard by the mid-stream change of topic. He was used to Omi thinking a couple jumps ahead of him; often the now-unconscious redhead was the only one to follow the sudden twists and turns; but damned if it wasn't disconcerting. "Um," he said cautiously, "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"That brothel, the Hot Body. That's the key."

Okay, he definitely hadn't followed Omi this time.

The other pile of blankets stirred, and Yohji sat up, blearily eyeing the two of them. Ken half-expected some snide remark about getting woken up, and tensed to snap back that the older man had at least gotten _some_ sleep, while he had had none, but to his surprise, Yohji failed to whine. Instead, he was staring speculatively at the little blond.

"Figured you'd have some idea how it all hooks together. So spill, Omittchi."

The kid rolled his eyes at the nickname, but forbore making any comments that would provoke the man farther. It wasn't like there weren't other people who called him that. And it beat the annoying 'Omi-chan' that Yohji had started out with. Especially when it was applied to notes left at his school's office. Seeing the spark of humor growing in Yohji's expressive green eyes, he hastily spoke up, "I think it's something like this: Even if Benson had nothing to do with Aya-kun disappearing, Aya was bothered by what happened --"

"Why?"

"Yohji, can you see the words 'casual,' 'sex,' and 'Aya' getting anywhere close to each other, let alone into the same sentence?" chided Omi in exasperation. Cross-legged on the floor, the older man shrugged and conceded the point. "Let's take this one step at a time, logically. February 12th, Aya-kun leaves on vacation. Yes, we're all aware of just what kind of a vacation the man takes, but that's beside the point. He checks into a nice hotel, and apparently starts right in on prepping for Birman-san's assignment. Two days later, he goes to the art viewing, and runs into Benson, who recognizes him for who he used to be. That's pretty freaky. The man blackmails him into having sex. Aya-kun comes back the next night, for the auction, and completes his mission. The hotel shows him as checking out the following day. With me so far?" Having extracted nods from the other two, Omi continued, "Okay, now this is Mr. Sociability we're talking about, here. I figure that he's still pretty pissed at Benson, and probably at Birman-san, too, for turning down his request to hunt that American jerk. He wants -- he _needs_ to take it out on something. But he won't do like you, Ken-kun, or like Yohji, and just go get into some pointless brawl in a bar--"

"Hey!" the two exclaimed in unison. They exchanged rueful glances, and Yohji grinned. "Well, maybe KenKen does that..." Ken stuck out his tongue and swatted at him with a cushion stolen from Omi's chair. The younger blond sniffed and slowly shook his head.

"You know, it's scary being the responsible one, here. But anyway, back to Aya-kun. He needs to take his anger out on something, but it has to be an appropriate target to work for him. I figure that he was looking for a suitable fight, and tangled with someone who has some kind of a connection to that whorehouse. Does this sound reasonable to you guys?"

Yohji flopped backwards onto his blankets and fished for a cigarette. Out of deference to the den's temporary designation as a hospital room, he refrained from lighting up, but he still chewed thoughtfully on its filter as he stared at the ceiling. "Okay... I can see Aya going looking for trouble. Yeah, that's the kind of thing he would do. But shit, in Tanagawa? Some little hick town that's gotten swallowed up by Tokyo's urban sprawl? See, the thing is, there's nothing _there_. Just some factories, some cheap apartments, lots of people going to work every day and slaving away. I think he went looking somewhere else, and ran into something else, or someone, and that Tanagawa's just where they dumped him."

"Maybe." said Omi reasonably. "But that's all a blank. The only connection we're sure of is the whorehouse. Because that's where he was found. And that's going to be our way to find out what really happened, and whether it represents a current threat."

Ken picked at the binding on the edge of his blanket, worrying at a loose thread until it began to unravel. He commented slowly, "Ooo-kay, I guess I see what you're getting at. Even though they didn't treat his injuries, really, somebody did keep him halfway clean and fed. That person might know how he got to the brothel, and let us connect to the next dot." What Omi said was true. There was no way Aya would have still been alive if he hadn't had at least minimal care. So, somewhere, there was someone who had known about his presence. But there was still one thing about the scenario that bothered him, and he speared each of his friends with a hard stare. "Tell me one thing, though, why keep him? Why not just kill him and dump his body in the bay?"

That killed the conversation, to say the least. Yohji picked up his ever-present sunglasses from the floor beside his bedding and popped them on, effectively putting out a 'do not disturb' sign with those blank lenses as he lay on the floor. Omi, on the other hand, mumbled, "I need some more sleep; it's already dawn," and retreated into the security of his warm nest, drawing a fold of blanket back up over his head with shaking fingers. Ken glanced up at the last member of their quartet, and found that Aya, too, was unavailable. And that was a real shame, because if anyone knew the answers to some of their questions, it was the unconscious man. Frustrated, Ken tugged a hand through his snarled hair, and lay down to see if he could catch a little sleep, too.

* * *

If it weren't for the fact that the sunlight streaming in through a crack in the blinds was coming from a much, much steeper angle, Ken thought groggily, he'd think he was back in the same conversation that he had fallen asleep during, because Yohji and Omi were arguing over the exact same ground that they had covered early that morning.

Well, maybe not the exact same. They seemed to have moved on from the 'what' to the 'who.'

Omi had gotten a sheet of paper from somewhere, and was waving it at the older man, like a bull-fighter with a red cape. Yohji was just as determinedly avoiding looking at whatever it was. More papers and a litter of dishes stood on the desk. When the scent of fresh brewed coffee wafting along on the currents of air disturbed by all that waving made Ken's stomach growl loudly, both combatants looked expectantly down at him. He groaned and resisted the urge to stuff his head back under the covers.

"See? Ken-kun is so awake." Omi chirped. Ken threw the cushion he had appropriated at his annoying teammate. As it bounced back, he snagged it back out of the air one-handed and whapped Yohji with it as well, sending the taller man backwards into his snarl of blankets. The pillow followed, landing on his face.

"Hey?! What did I do?" Yohji demanded. His muffled voice was aggrieved.

"You're breathing." Ken snarled. He turned to glare at the giggling boy who stood over them. "And don't you start, either. What's a guy got to do to get some sleep around here?"

"Um, stay in his own room?" Omi offered, just as Yohji suggested, "Join Aya."

"Yohji-kun!" The mingled shock and outrage from the two Weiss made him blink.

"Maa, Omittchi, Kenken, I didn't mean it like _that_. I wouldn't wish anyone to get hurt like he did. I just meant that you might as well curl up in the bed next to him. I've never seen anyone get so protective over our Aya as you do."

Ken's jaw dropped in surprise as Omi squeaked an inarticulate protest. Yohji shook his head despairingly and untangled himself from his bedroll. "Jesus, lighten up, Ken. You need the coffee more than I do. Here."

"Ah, thanks." Dazed, Ken took the proffered mug and gulped down most of its scalding contents. Somewhere along the way, his stomach had forgotten to be hungry, and had gone into free-fall instead. Did he really get _that_ protective, so that even Yohji – Mr. Self-Centered – had noticed? No, that wasn't entirely fair; Yohji _did_ care about all of them, and deeply. He just tended to be so flippant about it that they forgot. But the real issue was Aya, and how he would react to Ken's obsession if he woke up. _When he wakes up_, Ken corrected fiercely, because Aya just had to come back to them.

The brunet glanced up in time to catch Omi's wide, anxious eyes fixed on him. As usual, the kid was being way too perceptive. Witness the faint blush that stained his fair skin as the teen promptly glanced aside and cleared his throat. "Well. To get back to what we were discussing--"

Yohji growled and shoved his sunglasses into his rumpled hair, perching them up out of the way. "And I said, 'no, you're not going to,' right? Or is your hearing going selective on me?"

Baffled, Ken noted how Omi's blue gaze promptly grew stormy, and the way the boy's lips thinned with determination. Obviously, he must have been more out of it than he thought, because he had the distinct feeling that he had missed quite a lot after all. Ken interrupted the pair, "So... What exactly are we discussing here?"

Omi cut him a sharp glance, but addressed Yohji as well. "You aren't going to talk me out of this. I'm going to go look up some of the street rats and see if I can find someone who was at the Hot Body in Tanagawa."

"Aren't they all still in jail? I mean, the cops hauled everybody in during that raid."

"Nah," Youji shook his head. "With all the publicity this has gotten, the younger kids, the runaways without rap sheets, they would either have been turned straight over to family, or, if there was no family, to Child Protective Services. The older whores might have got stuck in the bansho for a day or two, till they could get a hearing and pay off their fines, or get set up for bail, but they should be back out on the street, too. The only ones the cops would have cared enough to keep are the owners, and maybe some of the heavy muscle, if they thought they were involved in 'recruiting.' "

"But how do we find these people if the cops don't have them?" Ken protested. Omi shot him a fierce look.

"Leave that to me." he promised. "I might not have been able to get into the investigation files on Aya, but simple arrest records are a piece of cake. And once I've got those, I go undercover and find them."

Uh, oh. Well that explained the obstinate expressions gracing the faces of the two Weiss blonds. Ken had an immediate urge to take Yohji's suggestion and join Aya – less for Aya's protection than for his own, however; as hiding behind the unconscious man might be the only safe place in the house. Getting caught between a pair of ticked off assassins didn't seem like a smart move. On the other hand, the squabbling couldn't be good for Aya's rest, which meant that it was time for them to take it elsewhere.

"I," Ken announced, "Am going to take a shower and get some hot food. Not necessarily in that order, either. When I get back, I would appreciate it if the two of you either had this all worked out, or were gone. Okay?" He didn't bother to wait and see if they would agree.

* * *

That did it. He was going to kill Yohji first, then that brat, Omi. Slowly. Ken's lips drew back, baring his teeth in a snarl that would have done his namesake, the Siberian tiger, proud. Or at least what he preferred to think of as his namesake. The whole kitty thing had lost its appeal a long time ago.

Unfortunately, he didn't do threat anywhere near as well as Aya did. Either that, or the others had been around him for waaaay too long. "Will you just shut up, already!" he finally shouted in exasperation. The two hunters paused, surprised, and stared at him. Ken shoved his fingers deep into his hair and resisted the temptation to tear it out by the roots. He didn't even have the strength to count to ten; the need to wring their necks was overwhelming.

"Ne, Ken-kun, I didn't mean to cause trouble...?" Omi offered hesitantly. "I really did think it would help to have one of us go see the children who had run away. It being me seemed like a good idea; I thought they would be less suspicious of someone their own age."

Yohji coughed. "And I didn't mean to run down Omi's abilities. I mean, the kid is _good_, right? It's just... after what happened to Aya, I don't want to see anyone else get taken down."

The pair was looking at him, with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Ken gave in to the urge and tugged sharply at his own hair, muttering, "Ow... You two give me a headache. The problem is, guys, you're both right. Omi, you would be best for getting close to the street kids, but Yohji is right, too. Any opponent who could take Aya out is nothing to sneeze at."

The boy had the good sense to blanch at that thought. Aya wasn't invincible, but he was damned good, and as far beyond the skill level of the average street punk as the moon. Glowering, Ken let the thought sink in for a moment before snapping, "That's why you're both going. Omittchi takes point, and Yohji, you back him up from a safe distance. No harm, no foul, you both come back in one piece, and I get you the fuck out of Aya's room! Understand?"

The chastened boy hung his head, shuffling his feet a little. Yohji recognized the futility of arguing and closed his mouth around another unlit cigarette. "Can we stay if we keep it down to a dull roar? I mean, there's not much of a chance that the kid and I will score now, during the day, and it would be kind of nice to keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty while we wait...?"

It was tempting to just say 'no,' and shove the idiot out the door, but something in the sheepish delivery made the athlete hesitate, which was weird, because if he was on top of his game, Ken would never have given it a second thought. When he caught the worried glance the former detective shot at the still slumbering form of their teammate, pity cut him to the heart; Yohji was just as worried as Ken was. Being close by, even if the other person didn't notice, still helped to ease some of that distress.

"Fuck..." Ken sighed. "Yeah, whatever. Just, _please_, no more arguing? No shouting? No... whatever the hell it is you guys do?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Omi's mouth, and the kid put up a hand to try to stifle a giggle. Humor danced in his bright blue eyes. "I'm going to go get us some snacks." he announced.

Yohji nodded. "Good idea. How about I pick us some music? You like Anggun, don't you?" The blond kid gave him a grin and a thumb's up as a woman's sensual voice poured from the stereo's speakers. The blend of French and Indonesian lyrics, and the pop beat made Ken think of Yohji and his night clubs, and he winced reflexively, but the taller man kept the volume turned down. And the singer really did have a great voice. In spite of himself, Ken felt some of the tension draining from his body, and he slowly slid down to sit by the foot of their teammate's bed. Without a word, Yohji flopped down flat on his back beside him.

They sat together companionably for several minutes, just listening and enjoying, until the soccer player gathered himself together with a mental shake. "Ne, Yotan... Do you think Benson really had nothing to do with what happened to Aya?"

"Aa. The American already screwed him over pretty good."

"But... If he... 'screwed over' Aya, why would he stop?" Ken asked slowly, dividing his attention between Yohji and the rattle of the door knob as Omi entered, juggling an armload of juice containers and bags.

"Mmph, yeah, good question--" the teen managed as he bumped the door closed. "I didn't understand that, either." Ken scrambled to his feet in time to halt an avalanche of pre-packaged foodstuffs, allowing Omi to dump much of the load into his outstretched hands. With the only places to sit being the over-stuffed chair the kid had slept in, a swivel chair at the desk, and Aya's bed, Ken shrugged and dumped the goodies in an open spot on the floor and sat down himself. Omi joined him, reaching under his elbow to snag a small pouch of dried wasabe peas. The brunet mock-growled and made as if he was going to snatch them back. Yohji simply rolled his eyes and helped himself to pocky instead. Which figured, seeing as he liked to treat them the same way that he did his precious cigarettes, leaving it dangling from between his lips. Ken resisted the temptation to slap the stick out of the older man's mouth.

"I told you, Benson got off on it. He just wanted to stick it to Aya because he could."

The bag of peas popped, its contents scattering across the carpet. Ken shook his head, muttering "...waste..." but Omi apparently didn't hear him. The blond's fair skin flamed with embarrassment, as he choked out, "Yohji! Why does everything you say have to sound like sex?!"

"Because," he retorted, "In Benson's case sex and winning _was_ the same thing. He gets off on the competitiveness, on beating the other guy. Much though I hate to say it, Birman was right: letting Benson think Aya was somebody's boy-toy was the perfect cover. After that, our redhead was a nobody, and not worthy of any more attention, so he dropped off Benson's radar." Yohji rolled over onto his stomach, elbow planted on the floor, jaw planted in his palm. The idea that it looked as if the three of them were at a slumber party crossed Ken's mind, and he decided that he'd better stay the hell away from that image; it was just too disturbing. Although, it was almost worth it for what it would do to Aya's face if he were ever to find out. Of course the flip side to _that_ was what Aya would do to _them_, but that was the risk of simply breathing around the up-tight man.

Ignorant of sleep-over thoughts, the oldest of the three Weiss continued, warming up to his topic. "The way I see it is like this: Benson beat Aya-kun, and through Aya, put one over on whoever Aya's benefactor was. And, he had the added pleasure of also putting one over on an old business rival by screwing his son. The whole thing – the need to win, the sex, whatever – was a safety valve for him, and took the edge off his competitiveness against the other bidders safely. By the time the auction started, Benson had other fish to fry, and could have cared less about our boy. Q.E.D. Benson is not our kidnapper. He's got no reason to be."

Ken was impressed in spite of himself, and, to judge by the way Omi's tawny eyebrows skated up to hide behind his hair, so was their resident genius. "Wow... I think you're right." His wondering tone would have been insulting, if Yohji had been the sort to care. But the playboy just smirked, and appropriated the last chocolate pocky from the package.

"Yeah, I'm great, aren't I?"

Conversation turned to other things, like the logistics of searching out the meager street life of Tanagawa that evening. Now that he was going along as Omi's backup, Yohji was much more agreeable and their plans fell into place fairly quickly. The cover story was to be simple: the petit blond was just another new runaway who had drifted into Tanagawa and was angling for a little easy cash. He was thin enough that with some scruffy clothes he would look like any other unfortunate who had found street life to be hard, making it believable that he would consider turning tricks as a way to survive. With the Hot Body having been on the news, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for him to be curious, and to ask a few questions. The only difficulty lay in gauging how long it would take for him to connect to anyone who had actually been in the brothel, and who knew about Aya. Ken had been on similar information gathering assignments, and knew that if luck ran against them, it could take days. Or nights, to be more precise.

He almost offered to go in Omi's place, and wondered at his reluctance to voice the suggestion. It was a good thing that neither of the others thought about it, and asked, because Ken wouldn't have known what to say.

At long last, Yohji threw his latest, half-eaten pocky at the trashcan and dragged himself to his feet. He stretched, audibly popping his vertebrae, and yawned. "Well, kids... I can't say it hasn't been fun, but this old man needs some shut-eye if we're going to be up all night."

"Yeah." agreeing, Omi nodded wearily. "Especially since we need to swing by home for me to pick up some clothes to wear. All I've got with me is my mission gear, and some basics like clean underwear and tee-shirts."

The brunet bit his tongue before he blurted out something inappropriate along the lines of 'nothing too sexy; you're there for information, not to get picked up.' Instead, he gave the other boy a hand shoveling the debris from their snacking into the trash. Yohji didn't bother to help, he just leaned lazily against the doorframe and watched.

"Actually," Omi added, "What I'd really like is a long, hot shower. But I'm probably already too clean for the cover."

The lanky man snorted and fished in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. "You could always go outside and roll around in that sorry excuse for a flower bed. I mean, tulips? In nice rows? I'll bet its gonna look even worse once spring really gets going." Omi rolled his eyes but said nothing as he strolled past his partner and out the door. Yohji pushed off and followed, expanding on the theme of what the garden was likely to be in warmer weather, and what kinds of improvements the kid could make to it. Ken just shook his head and resigned himself to spending the rest of the day bored silly, watching over Aya, while they got to go out and actually _do_ something.

It wasn't that he minded staying behind. The others hadn't been too far off the mark when they had teased him about his protective streak. He _was_ feeling hyper-protective of their injured teammate. Not that he really understood _why_. It wasn't as if Aya needed – or wanted – the care. But there was something about his having been lost to them for so long, and the shape that he was in now that he was found that really got under Ken's skin. It might partly be the idea that they hadn't been there when Aya needed them, that they had left him alone, hurt, in hostile hands.

It might also be that he was losing his friggin' mind.

Spurred into restlessness by the merry-o-round of his thoughts, Ken seized the bedding abandoned by his friends and made up a proper bed on the floor, almost a futon's worth of comfort. But once he had it done, he couldn't bring himself to lie down and follow their example with a nap of his own. Instead, he paced the confines of the room, bouncing from wall, to desk, to bookcase, to Aya.

Aya.

One of the most beautiful creatures Ken could remember seeing, and he was equipped with an equally nasty attitude. It was insane to want to keep him from harm, since Aya was the source of most of the damage that got done. Which was no surprise to anyone who had the misfortune to encounter the assassin and his lethal sword.

Except... this time, the deadly redhead was the one who had gotten taken down.

Ken rolled the swivel chair over close by the bed, spun it about, and sat down so that he could rest his forearms on its back. But his thoughts ran together, and his chin wearily sank down to rest on his crossed wrists.

A suppressed hiss of pain, and the stealthy rustle of cloth jerked the athlete back awake in time to catch a very wobbly form as it tried to get to its feet. In a way, it was a good thing Ken had been mostly asleep; otherwise he would have fumbled his grip and dropped Aya like a rock. As it was, though, he was more than a little confused when he didn't encounter any serious resistance. Aya fell back as though his bones had turned to over-cooked vegetables, and there was no hope of salvaging the meal. Ken couldn't resist muttering, "Idiot."

"Thank you." The whisper was a dry rasp, but there was no mistaking a faint, wry humor.

Ken jerked as if he had been struck. Aya... smiling? And more than that, his entire form was lit with a warmth and sweetness that was nothing like the taciturn man that Ken thought that he knew. It made him seem like an entirely different person, even more so than the weird haircut had. Aya's head tilted slightly to the side, considering, as the lovely violet eyes widened with an innocence that was normally absent in their teammate. Not that Aya was jaded, or anything, but it was as if the capacity to simply be in the moment, without the awareness of his life and sins had been lost to him. Seeing Ken's confusion, Aya's smile grew broader, more profound, and he spoke, his husky, low voice curling affectionately between them. "You seem distressed. I hope that it is not on my account."

"Ah... yeah, you've been—I mean, no! Of course not!" The memory of his earlier concern over what the redhead might do to him if he found out that Ken had been, well, _fussing_ flooded back. Floundering, he blushed to the roots of his sun-browned hair.

Unaccountably, Aya laughed.

And not the short, mocking chuckle that an opponent could occasionally pry out of him, either. But a happy, careless sound that was as warm and unplanned as setting foot outside to discover that the sun was shining, when all that had been expected was rain. Ken picked his jaw up off the figurative floor and closed his mouth. Astonished didn't begin to cover it; he was bewildered, and stunned, and completely, absolutely confused. "A- Aya...?" he whispered, then with greater strength, "Are you feeling okay? I mean I could go call Nariakira-sensei to come back and have another look at you. Or, maybe not, I mean I know you don't like doctors, much..." The gush of words ran down when he realized that Aya's sweet smile had turned to a mischievous grin. It didn't seem to be bothering the man that Ken was babbling, or that he had suggested a doctor, or... anything. Normally, the Aya that he was used to would have either growled at him, or given him one of those glares that could peel paint. Not only had he done neither, but he seemed genuinely amused.

"Oh, my God..." Ken whispered. "You're not Aya."


	3. Chapter 3: Lost

**Author's Note:**

The gold star for most amusing review goes to LoneCayt:  
  
_"So, an amnesia scenario? Hmm. A pretty average plot device, and done pretty often. But Aya's always an interesting character to give amnesia to. I was impressed by your attention to detail and your descriptions - normally, I would've said the plot could've used some work to make it flow better and such, but I think the detail and description you've used tends to fill in that gap. I'm interested to see where you take this."_

LoneCayt, if I had had your email, you would have gotten chapter 3 in your mailbox five minutes after I received this. Please read – you'll see why. (snicker) Thank you for entertaining me.

L.A. Mason

P.S. I've actually finished writing chapter 6, and hope to stay a couple of chapters ahead of the postings.

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_**Reflections: Lost**_

_Chapter Three _

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

"Calm down, Ken. How could he _not_ be Aya? I mean, this isn't a soap opera on TV. Real people don't suddenly discover that they have long-lost evil twins."

Like hell. Had the rest of Weiss somehow managed to drive the memory of Schwarz out of their collective minds? Because he hadn't. The harassed athlete muttered "... if people have evil twins, then we're the ones assigned to Weiss." Yohji blinked, but decided not to rise to the bait.

"Look, kiddo. Kritiker has his prints on file. Plus probably everything else that there is to know about him, right down to the last sequence on his DNA. We just check this guy's prints against Kritiker's, and we'll know if he's Aya or not." suggested Yohji, slumping down into the blue sofa and planting his feet on the coffee table. Seated on the floor nearly beneath him, Omi shoved his long legs out of the way, muttering "Not next to the laptop, idiot." The boy was gnawing on his lower lip, completely focused as his slim fingers flew across the computer's keyboard.

Ken had a brief, panicky thought about Kritiker, and surveillance. But, he forced himself to relax; that was one thing that agreeable, obedient Omi had proven defiant about: Kritiker could not spy on them in the privacy of their own home. And the teen had applied the rule to the safe house, too. Ken forced himself to quit hyperventilating, to calm down for God's sake.

It was weird to think that his companions hadn't argued with him once about Aya, but accepted his intuition at face value. Ken's mind skittered sideways from the thought, adding it to the growing file of things that he didn't want to deal with just then.

"I can't get into those records." Omi snapped finally. He rubbed at the back of his stiff neck with growing annoyance. "If there's one thing Kritiker protects with a vengeance, it's the identities of the operatives in the various cells. There might be a few people at the top who know who everyone is, but down on our level, the cells are kept strictly isolated. That way, if one team goes down, the others can't be compromised."

Yojhi made an odd, see-sawing gesture with one hand, as if he weren't too surprised that there was a file out there that the kid couldn't access, after all. "Okay, look. There must be something that Aya – our Aya – has handled that I can lift his prints from, right? All I have to do is to compare them to Sleeping Beauty, and we'll know if _he_ was ever there.

"Aya's katana." answered Omi promptly. Distracted from his futile quest on the computer, the youngest assassin was nodding enthusiastically, the gist of what Yohji was proposing apparently making perfect sense to him. "I brought it with us. Knowing how protective Aya is of it, logically, that means that the only prints on it should be his, and mine, because no one else would have touched it."

The former detective grinned approvingly. "Got it in one, kid. I can eliminate your prints, easy. If what's left matches our mystery guest, the odds are good that he actually is our favorite icy prick."

Bewildered, Ken passed an anxious glare from one to the other of his partners. "What do you mean, 'odds?' If it's a match, he is, right?"

"Ah, ah... only circumstantial evidence, since we have no witness to the prints being made, and no positively ID-ed control to compare them to. If I was a lawyer, all I would be able to claim is that the same person made both sets of prints." Yohji grinned as he waggled a finger in the younger man's face. When Ken looked as if he were seriously considering biting it, he backed off, turning instead to Omi and saying expectantly, "Well? Go get it."

Bounding up from the floor, Omi went, and got. He came thundering back down the carpeted flight from the house's upper level – presumably from Aya's usual bedroom – clutching a familiar long shape that was swaddled in a cloth carry case. Yohji's tensely mocking humor lightened, becoming genuine for an instant at the sight as he unfolded from the couch with alacrity.

"Perfect! That cuts down on the likelihood of stray prints. Gimme." He extended a hand impatiently, and perplexed, the teen handed the weapon over. Without bothering to wait to see if the others would follow, or not, the taller of the two blonds spun about and headed in the direction of the massive kitchen, on the next half-level down. Ken shrugged and followed, Omi trotting at his heels.

As they emerged into the gleaming, stainless steel room, Yohji paused at the housekeeper's cramped desk that was squeezed into a nook at the bottom of the stairs, and snitched a tape dispenser. He set it and the still-wrapped sword on the huge steel worktable that dominated the center of the room, and focused his attention on the contents of a big spice rack. Several sneezes and impromptu taste-tests later, he carried an arm load of jars over to the table. At the mystified expressions on the two younger Weiss' faces, he relented and explained, "I don't have any powdered graphite, so I need something really fine-ground to use for finger print powder."

"Oh." In spite of himself, Ken was impressed. He had never really given much thought to Yohji's supposed abilities as a detective, having long since written them off as being mainly limited to having the gift of the gab. The man could make just about _anybody_ spill their life's story, on the basis of his sympathetic expression alone. It was kind of a shock to discover that he had some real... well... 'detecting' skills. But there he was, sifting a fine mist of something orange onto the black lacquered sheath of Aya's precious katana.

His choice of locations made sense, after a long moment of consideration. The sword's hilt, between its sharkskin wrapping and elegantly crisscrossed silk bindings, was too rough to hold finger prints; which was as it should be, since the point was to provide a secure grip for its master's hands in a fight. The tiny gold menuki that winked beneath the blood-red silk, and the ornately carved oval of the tsuba were no better. And there was no point in checking the blade itself, as Aya would never allow a fingerprint to mar its lightly oiled surface. But the glossy black surface of the sheath was another matter. More times than he could count, Ken had seen slim white fingers gripping it by its middle. And sure enough, that was were Yohji found a host of nearly invisible spots to trap his dust. The detective carefully lifted each off with tape, mounting them on a sheet of clean white paper.

"There." He hummed with satisfaction. "Now, all we have to do it to compare them to our guest up in the den."

Ken swallowed hard past the lump in his suddenly-dry throat, unable to decide if he wanted to them to match, or not. If they didn't, at bare minimum, they would have to explain to Manx how and why they had snatched the wrong man from the hospital, and at worst... they might be sitting on the tip of an iceberg of a conspiracy, because it could mean that someone had deliberately set them up to bring a cuckoo back to their nest. And if that were the case, he didn't want to think what it could mean for the original Aya. Their friend could be in serious trouble, if not dead outright. Which served to remind him naggingly of the conversation that the three of them had had earlier: in the real world, the professionals didn't keep victims alive, so why had Aya been spared?

He had just better hope that the redhead recuperating in the den was _their_ redhead. Even if it meant that they were up against stock soap opera plot number two: horribly timed amnesia.

* * *

Well. That went well. Or not. Ken frowned, staring at the unconscious redhead, not quite able to stop himself from shying away at naming him 'Aya.' The prints matched, which upped the odds on him being _their_ assassin, their Abyssinian, but somehow the knowledge didn't make him feel any better.

That smile, so fucking beautiful. And so very, very wrong.

Aya didn't smile.

Groaning, Ken rubbed his aching temples and tried not to think about it. Yet the ideas wouldn't leave him alone, and he was forced to admit that if the body was Aya's, then something terrible had happened to drive away his partner's mind. He flopped into the armchair, dragging one of Omi's blankets up around him, stealing what comfort he could from the boy's lingering scent. Okay, logically, it was fruitless to obsess about what had, or had not, happened to the man until he woke up and could answer some questions. Hell, there was always the slim possibility that it had just been the drugs that Aya was pumped full of that made him seem so strange. He might wake up with that tight-lipped, stone-cold face that was his version of normal, and then Ken could feel like a moron for alarming the rest of Weiss over nothing.

Right.

Ken didn't know what he was going to do. He was well aware that, even by Weiss standards, his hold on reality was a bit fucked up. Losing Kase not once, but twice and the second time by his own hand, had made him vulnerable, and had reawakened a host of memories that he had thought set aside by his training through Kritiker. On top of that mess, his brief what-ever-it-was with Yuriko that had nearly torn him away from his teammates left him feeling emotionally out of control. It wasn't fair, but he really needed Aya back as a stable point in an increasingly unstable world. Tears were beginning to seep from beneath his tightly squeezed shut lids, and rubbing his face into Omi's blanket simply wasn't enough.

"Ken-kun? What's the matter?" The low, warm voice made its target twitch so hard that Ken was sure he had dislocated something. Then joy leapt in his heart; _Aya remembered my name!_

"W-wha--? N-nothing!" Confused, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks, the younger man found himself staring into a steady pair of eyes that seemed very aware of his turbulent mental state. Aya frowned slightly in a way that seemed wholly normal, then did the unthinkable: he held his hand out toward Ken.

As hands went, it wasn't _that_ threatening. Too large and masculine to be mistaken for a woman's, it none-the-less was slim, and elegant. His nails were too long, and on the ragged side, as if he had broken most of them a while back and let them grow out without further attention. They didn't fit with the automatic, almost mechanical care that Aya normally took of his body. The hand beckoned imperiously, drawing Ken's stunned attention to the pale expanse of bare forearm, and the way the skin was reddened and irritated by the tape that secured the IV's needle. All in all, a very _human_ invitation, which probably explained the depth of Ken's reluctance. But even so, the athlete pulled himself up out of the chair, letting the comforter slip from his shoulders, and hesitantly approached.

The texture of Aya's calluses, and the hard strength still present despite his weakened condition, immobilized Ken as the other man's fingers wrapped around his, and tugged. Before he could think to protest, he was perched on the edge of the bed with Aya still in it, and it seemed as if the redhead had gone back to sleep. But asleep, or not, it made no difference; the bewildered assassin was trapped. There was no way short of violence to get his hand back.

* * *

"Aw, isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen?" Groggily, Ken worked out that the speaker was Yohji. A Yohji who was sounding way too amused for the sanity and well-being of anybody within range. And what the hell did he mean by 'cute,' anyway?

"Hey! Keep it down, would you?!" hissed Omi. "They need some sleep."

Oh. Sleep. Sleep was good. Despite some annoying tendencies toward being a morning person, Ken could appreciate sleeping in. He was feeling surprisingly comfortable, and more relaxed than he could remember being in days... weeks, even. He made an inarticulate noise, and burrowed in closer to the heat of his pillow, distantly registering how it shifted to accommodate him.

Wait a minute. Accommodated? But... there shouldn't be anyone there. Hadn't been anyone since Yuriko, even though he'd had plenty of offers from their fan club following the young woman's departure for Australia. Adrenaline, closely chased by fear, jolted the weariness out of him, and he tried to sit up, only to find that there was a very possessive arm wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes flew open wide.

Yohji was snickering, and really deserved to die. Like, right away.

"Help?" squeaked Ken. The papery texture beneath his cheek was unmistakably a hospital gown.

The snicker turned to a guffaw that cut off abruptly when Omi hissed angrily. The kid's voice took over, light and soothing, "It's okay, Ken-kun. We'll get you loose."

"You know," Yohji drawled, "When I suggested that you climb in and join our little Aya, I didn't think you had the balls to act on the idea." Neither of the younger assassins responded; Omi was too busy trying to find a way to defuse the bomb, and Ken was fighting the panic that seemed to be his constant mood of late. The detective made a vague sound of disappointment.

"There... All better." the blond teen murmured gently. The entrapping arm relaxed, falling limply away, and the older boy gingerly sat up.

Prior to the events of the preceding couple of days, Ken couldn't remember having ever been close to a sleeping Abyssinian. There was something about the older assassin that didn't encourage taking liberties, and being in the same room with him while he slept definitely constituted invading his personal space. Yet, here they were, again, all crowded in together in the mansion's den. And not only that, he had been _touching_ the stand-offish man, and was still alive to tell the tale.

Maybe 'unconscious' didn't count? Because there was certainly something at work keeping Aya from waking up with a snarl and a murderous assault, and helplessly unconscious was a better choice than thinking that the man had lost his edge. What had his captors done to him, to make it possible for anyone, even Weiss, to get within the sealed borders of his defenses?

"Ken-kun?" Omi's light touch settled on his shoulder, hovering uncertainly. Ken read the implied _Do you want us to leave?_ together with _Do you want to talk about this?_ Helpless, he shrugged under his friend's hand. What could he say, anyway? 'Aya's freaking me out?' He settled for staring at the sleeping assassin's face, perfectly beautiful, even with the damage and bandages, and tried to ignore the way something unfamiliar twisted in his gut. Then, resolutely, Ken averted his gaze from the swollen curve of the injured man's cheekbone, and the arc of long lashes falling on bruised flesh; there was something obscene about even thinking about the relaxed line of Aya's lips under the circumstances. He slid from the bed and headed for the door.

"Come on, Omi. I need some exercise before I go stale. Spar with me?"

"Me?" Omi protested plaintively. "Why me? You know I don't do close-in stuff. How about Yohji? I'm sure he'd be glad to help you practice."

"Hey! There's a big difference between 'work out,' and 'work off frustration.' Trust me, I should know." Yohji gave them an impressive leer. "Now me? I prefer to see my favorite cuties have a go at each other. It lives up to a fantasy that's a particular favorite of mine." The petit blond responded with a vocal declaration that he would show who was working out, and who wasn't, and that all he needed was five minutes alone with a certain loud-mouth. Along the way, between Omi's indignant and largely ineffective complaints setting Yohji off again, Ken dropped back to take a last look at Aya.

He sighed. He really needed to do something about that queasy feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Without his bugnuks, the glancing blow Ken landed wasn't enough to do any real harm, although it was powerful enough to send the smallest member of Weiss sprawling, and thereby starting up Yohji's hyena-like amusement all over again. Narrow chest heaving, Omi gasped out, "I... hate you... both."

That appealed to the predatory part of Yohji's sense of humor. "Maa," he said lightly. "Don't say things like that. Especially when you look so ready for Kenken to pounce you."

"Yohji!" they both protested. Ken stifled the urge to go whap some sense into the flirtatious older blond. It wouldn't do any good, anyway, and it would leave them wide open for the next round of innuendoes. Especially when what Yohji was saying was true; Omi did look remarkably pretty spread out on the floor with his face flushed from exertion, and his hair and clothing mussed. It gave Ken an uncomfortably sharp memory of Kase, who had really looked nothing at all like Omi, lying on the torn-up grass of the soccer practice field, laughing his head off in the pouring rain. It had been the first time Ken had kissed him. In the typical useless fashion of free-association, his next thought was to wonder if that was the moment when Kase had begun to betray him, and everything that their friendship had meant. In which case, the betrayal that had led to the destruction of his pro soccer career, and of the love he had had for his best friend, had been all his own fault. The ease that Ken had felt moments before evaporated, leaving him feeling more bereft and lonely than he had since waking up in bed with Aya. He turned blindly away, not giving Yohji the satisfaction of seeing the hurt in his face.

"Hey, Ken-kun!" Omi scrambled off the floor and ran after him, but he had enough of a lead to make it through the length of the house, and into the security of his own room.

Ken threw himself face down diagonally across his water bed, ignoring the brief tsunami the act set in motion. He groaned. He was weak to even think about a teammate in those terms. Just like he had been weak with Kase.

It wasn't the sex so much. Despite his Christian upbringing, the brunet kind of doubted that God cared, or had the time to be bothered with that part. Ken didn't think the post-game, adrenaline-fueled, up-against-the-shower-wall sex meant much of anything. If he had been content to leave things there, it would have been okay, but he had committed the sin of falling in love, and of believing that he was worth being loved in return. And now he was starting to make the same mistake all over again.

The sound of the doorknob turning caused him to burrow his face into his rumpled covers. Muffled, Ken snarled, "Go away."

"No." The surface of the bed undulated nauseatingly as weight settled familiarly beside the soccer player's hip. "You need to talk, Ken-kun. _We_ need to talk."

"Omi, just go away." A hand settled on his back, just to the side of his spine, and began rubbing slow circles. Against his better judgment, some of the tension bled from him, and Ken added a frustrated curse.

"No." The soft repetition didn't bring with it any threat of enforced confidences or confessions; Omi just sat beside him and continued the slow stroking. The lack of pressure calmed the older boy. Did a better job of it, in fact, than his attempts to beat the living daylights out of his internal demons using exercise had.

"Yohji-kun says to tell you that he's sorry. He didn't think about how teasing you might upset you." The unexpectedly serious tone made Ken tense up all over again, but the smaller blond never paused in his slow, judicious movements. Eventually, Ken gave up and released a pent-up gust into the bed's surface. The kid continued as if the noise had consisted of words open to understanding, saying "Yes, I know. He can be a pain, and it would be really nice if he would think first, sometimes... But he means well. He really does worry about all of us."

Sighing, Ken shrugged off the soothing hand. But he did it gently, trying to convey that he wasn't offended, or angry. Omi shook his head slightly, grinning with something approaching his normal level of silly good humor. There was an evil twinkle in the lake-blue eyes as he added, "Of course, we could always yank Yohji-kun's chain with some yelling and moaning, and maybe thumping the headboard against the wall."

"Ur..." Ken's brain seized up at the idea of _those_ kinds of noises, Omi, himself, and what Yohji would think – hell, what _Ken_ was thinking - until he caught the significant glance their genius hacker shot at the closed door. Oh... So, Yohji was waiting right outside to see if the kid was successful in talking him down from his mental ledge. Mouth twitching, the athlete tried unsuccessfully for a Fujimiya-level poker-face. "Omi, by the time the headboard on this thing hits the wall, we'd be terminally sea-sick. I think we're going to have to give the plan a pass, no matter how tempting it is to mess with Yohji's brain."

"Oh, well. Too bad." The kid slid off of the bed and extended a hand to pull Ken along with him. "I guess we'll just have to go with significant, smoldering looks over pizza, then. Come on; I'm starving."

Startled, Ken felt a genuine laugh bubble up as his stomach growled in sympathy. It might not really make things any better, but pizza at least provided the illusion that everything was A-okay. That, and the prospect of a little revenge against the team's playboy cheered him up, too.

* * *

One of Manx's people had picked up enough pizzas to feed an army, which in a way was exactly what they had guarding the estate, and he had left two of them behind on the coffee table in the living room. Yohji had scrounged several bottles of some kind of dark, imported beer, the sight of which sent a delicate shudder through Omi. The kid declared his intention to get himself a Coke from the kitchen, instead, and smiled when Ken asked him to grab one for him, as well.

Not drinking alcohol was probably a very good idea just then.

"So... did you and the kid work anything out?" Yohji asked with forced casualness. He kept his eyes on the slice of pizza he was engaged in extracting from the box, looking more like a wolf separating his prey from the herd than usual.

Ken sighed. Trust Yohji to make a production out of anything. Still, it felt nice to be asked. "Yeah, I guess so." He shot the older man a quick peek from under his bangs, and noticed with amusement that even without Omi's 'smoldering looks' the older Weiss was turning faintly pink. It was cute, and endearing, in a typically weird sort of way. Ken's grin grew. Yohji was obviously dying to ask, and at the same time really didn't want to know what went on between his teammates.

Ken supposed that on some levels, he and Yohji were very much alike in their tastes: neither one cared all that much about the gender of their sexual partners, even if the reasons for it were completely different. For Yohji, it had a lot to do with the thrill of the chase, and with his perceptions of what constituted beauty. If somebody was hot, then gender became a distant second consideration. On the flip side, for Ken it didn't matter because he didn't intend to let anyone get close enough emotionally for it _to_ matter. He hadn't slept with anyone in months, and didn't intend for that to change, but if he did, that person would just be a body. He wasn't about to screw up his professional relationship with the other Weiss Hunters for something so ephemeral, no matter that sleeping at Aya's side had felt so good, or that Omi's gentle touch had eased more than the physical hurt in his muscles. Teasing would help to keep things in perspective, plus anything that put Yohji off balance was good in his book. The blond acted as if he were God's gift to women and to men, both. Smirking, the younger man fired the opening salvo, "Why? Were you feeling left out, Yotan? Omi and me, we wouldn't mind if you came along." He concentrated on taking a very deliberate bite off the end of the triangle of pizza, showing off his even white teeth. Yohji paled subtly at the intended double meaning.

"Er... no. I mean, thanks, but hey – what do you suppose is taking Omittchi so long, anyway? He only had to go to the kitchen--" Babbling, he got up from the floor on the other side of the coffee table and bolted for the kitchen stairs.

"Geez. That wasn't much of a challenge." Ken murmured, disappointed. He shrugged, finished the slice in his hand and reached for another. The missing member of the team arrived and dropped down to sit cross legged by his side.

"Hey. So where was Yohji going in such a hurry?" Omi asked. He checked both boxes before deciding on a piece of the vegetarian special. He picked off a toasted cube of tofu and popped it in his mouth, nodded, and took a healthy bite.

"Dunno. Something he ate didn't agree with him, I guess." Ken decided to let the matter rest for a bit; Yohji in a mood like that was no challenge, anyway. Instead he accepted a sweating can of soda from Omi and changed the subject. "Where were you?"

"I wanted to stop in and check on Aya-kun. His IV bag needed changing, and I wanted to make sure that the catheter wasn't blocked. Nariakira-sensei showed me how to take care of it when he stopped by earlier."

"Oh." The brunet considered that. He had been vaguely aware that the doctor had been by while he had been in the shower, but then he had gotten the shock of seeing Aya being so un-Aya-ish, and in the resulting panic had completely spaced the annoying man. Nariakira just wasn't one of his favorite people, even if it seemed that he was competent to do his job. "So, was it?"

"Was it what? Oh, you mean the catheter. No, Aya's fine. He's been sleeping better, and his color was good. I think it helped him to have you stay close by earlier." Omi took a swig of Coke, hiding his expression behind the can so that Ken was uncertain exactly how to take the comment. Face value seemed the best course, so he plunged ahead.

"Omi, do you think it's his head injury that's making him act so strange? I mean, it's not like Aya to treat somebody like a teddy bear. Especial not me; he doesn't even _like_ me."

The kid shrugged and grabbed another slice of pizza. "You should give yourself a little more credit. I don't think Aya-kun dislikes you; he just isn't good at showing how he feels."

The temptation to roll his eyes was overwhelming. "Ri-i-i-i-ght. If Aya was any 'better' at showing his true feelings, he'd explode. Don't forget, I've seen him around the Takatori."

That earned him a wince from the boy, who retorted, "And, don't forget, I'm a Takatori, too. Or, I was before Persia took me in. I don't understand all of it, not yet anyway, but Aya said that I was _me_, not my family. And having seen some of the stuff they've done, I'm just as glad."

Ken nodded, relaxing as the food hit his system and a headache that he hadn't even known that he was nursing faded. In his own strange way, Aya was as predictable as the sun rising in the east. Omi had slowed to just nibbling on his last slice, finally conceding defeat and dropping the crust into the lid of an empty box. With a contented sigh, the kid stretched out full length on the carpet, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

It was kind of nice to lie around, secure for once that Aya was safe, even if he wasn't quite up to 'sound' yet. The sun was already setting, painting the underside of the clouds visible through the plate glass of the sliding doors a lurid shade of mingled pink and orange. Streaks of shadow violet were creeping in as day faded into evening. Comfortably full, Ken opted to stay seated on the floor, leaning back against the end of the couch, too lazy to go stretch out next to the teenager. Omi looked as if he were dozing off; a good plan if he and Yohji were going to go snooping in Tanagawa later than night, and Ken thought he might do the same. The late nights were wearing on him, and even the couple of extra hours that he had spent curled up at Aya's side hadn't been enough to restore him. Half-heartedly, he eyed the remaining mushroom-pepperoni pizza, and decided to leave it for Yohji. The eldest Weiss had absolutely no sense of humor when it came to someone else snagging the last of a treat. Although, if he didn't get his butt back from where ever he was hiding, it would be his own damned fault if there wasn't any left.

The sunset deepened until the colors were reminiscent of Aya; a particular shade of darkened wine red and another of violet slate. Ken blinked sleepily, remembering how warm, and surprisingly comfortable the hard muscle of the man's shoulder had been beneath his cheek. He had felt safe, and comforted... Neither the crazies of Schwarz, nor the more mundane evils of Esset's minions had had a hold on his dreams. Nor had Kase, or even Yuriko tried to torment him. Weird, but true. There had been no screams, no explosions, no blood...

The distinctive sound of breaking glass galvanized both young men into motion. Omi rolled, coming up onto his feet in a fluid rush, wide awake as slim metal needles as long as his fingers appeared in his hand. No matter how many times he saw the move, Ken had yet to catch where the slivers appeared from, making it seem a kind of magic. But right at the moment he didn't care where the other assassin managed to hide his weapons; the racket was coming from Aya's room.

They sped noiselessly into the hallway, each flattening to either side of the door without speaking. Another crash – metallic this time – resounded from within. _Please, Aya, be all right! _Omi held up a hand, bending down his fingers: _one, two, three..._ Ken planted a kick just below the door's knob, tearing the latch out of the frame in a way that felt as if it were his heart tearing through his throat. But there was no time for any of that. Following the swinging door inward as it banged into the wall, his forward dive took him into a roll that brought him up in the shelter of the bed, between it and the desk. Omi's lunge took him to the other side, toward the solitary armchair. The shattering bark of a gun at point blank range told them that the instinctive moves had been right on the money.

Ken registered the wet gush of the burst IV bag as its stand tangled with Aya's legs, bringing the tall man down in a heap, too busy grappling with a smaller, quicker form in black commando gear to care. Their wounded partner was fighting with a mix of unthinking reflex and desperation, but he was already too exhausted to hold off the hands that grabbed fistfuls of his hair in preparation for slamming his head into the floor. There was no glove or bugnuk to lend his punch killing force, but Ken closed his fist anyway and jabbed at the base of the intruder's skull, connecting in a solid impact. At the same time, his red haired teammate was doing a side-ways twist and squirm that put the knife aimed for his gut into the carpet instead. Ken landed another short, stiff punch and felt something give beneath his knuckles as the enemy went limp on top of Aya. Their eyes met, Aya's pupils so enlarged that they were depthless black, but the continuing scuffle behind Ken's back distracted him, and he spun.

An intruder, also in anonymous black, was already down with a gleaming steel needle protruding from his sightless eye. A third swept Omi's feet out from under him, but the kid rolled and bounced back up without a moment's hesitation. For someone who insisted that close-in fighting wasn't his thing, he was deadly efficient. Ken felt a distant hum of terror and displaced fight-or-flight, his heart beating fast as his blond teammate slid under his attacker's arm, forcing it up and sending a bullet harmlessly into the ceiling. Omi's dart sank into the man's armpit, bypassing a hidden vest, just as his stiffened fingers found the invader's trachea. An explosive, gurgling cough drowned out the solid meat-sound of the kid's other fist striking low and to the side, going for the femoral artery in its hiding place beside the protected groin. Agony flashed across what Ken could see of the man's face, stark white against the torn black of his mask as he collapsed into the tangle on the floor.

Movement that wasn't the breeze fluttering the blinds at the broken window alerted the soccer player, and his ingrained reflexes had him diving across the pile of damaged bodies in time to grapple Aya and take him and his IV down again. Dazed and confused though Abyssinian was, he still launched an elbow at the side of Ken's throat, and only luck and prior familiarity with the move let the brunet avoid it. He rolled, flipping them over so that he partially covered Aya with his own body, coming up onto one knee as a new form hurled through the blinds, finally succeeding in tearing them down. Omi had scrounged a section of the collapsed IV stand and swung it like a baton, catching the latest intruder across the back of his neck. The body joined the dog-pile on the floor with a grunt.

A bullet whined through the gaping window, smacking into a bookcase loaded with books and sending up a puff of dust and paper. Even though it had cleared him by several feet, Ken ducked reflexively and shoved Aya prone under the frame of the hospital bed. Shit. That meant a minimum of a fifth attacker somewhere outside. They weren't using silenced weapons, which meant that they had no fear of attracting attention. Which in turn meant that Manx's perimeter guards had already been neutralized. The house was isolated enough within the confines of the estate that it was likely that no one outside its borders could hear a thing.

Omi caught his eye, signing for retreat. Ken nodded agreement – the sooner they were out of the trashed den, the better – and he added an interrogative. Omi's swift fingers replied _down – garage._

That made a lot of sense. The underground garage was also a hardened bomb shelter. Lacking the proper codes would mean that the heavy steel roll door could only be opened from the outside with some serious equipment. The connecting door to the house had two inch thick bolts that would seat into the concrete, making it damned near impregnable. And, best of all, the car parked in the garage was already loaded with everything from communications gear, to high-powered rifles, to bullet proof glass, making it a rolling hit-man's wet dream.

The smaller blond was already scuttling for the door, taking up the point position and leaving Ken to wrangle Aya. The man was barely conscious, seeping blood staining the powder blue hospital gown an unmistakable, gory shade down his ribs where either the earlier wound had broken open, or he had acquired a new one. Either way, they needed to get the flow stanched. But not while they were in the open, and vulnerable.

In the end, Ken had to rely on brute strength to haul Aya up from the floor, brace him against the foot of the bed, and finally settle his lean body over Ken's shoulder. He winced in sympathy at the low moan the pressure wrung from the man, but couldn't do anything but shift him a little higher and lock an arm across the backs of his dangling thighs. Aya's sheathed katana lay on the near end of the desk, and automatically he snatched it up. They had to go; Omi was already out into the hall, sliding along the wall, and he had to follow.

Crossing the expanse of the living room with those stupid sliding glass doors was going to be a bitch.

The kid was crouched low, his back against the corridor wall, an array of his throwing darts fanned between the fingers of one hand, and a gun that he had liberated from one of their assailants in the other. Without bothering to look back at Ken, he murmured, "I wish the hell I knew what happened to Yohji."

And that really was a million-yen question, wasn't it? Yohji hadn't come back from the kitchen when the whole rumble had gotten rolling. The nagging sense Ken had had that their partner was taking too long took on a more sinister feel. What if the absent man had already been neutralized, _before_ the attackers went after Aya? And, if Yohji had been taken out in the kitchen, what did that do for their chances? The route to the garage lay that way through servants' territory, since the house had been built with the assumption that a chauffeur would be on hand to bring the car around front for his master. Heart thumping, he adjusted his grip on Aya and got ready to move.

They had worked together for so long that Ken felt rather than saw the marginal tensing a second before Omi darted into motion, flying across the middle of the living room, intent on drawing enemy fire, and providing what cover he could. The athlete was barely a step behind him, even though he wouldn't be able to keep up for long with Aya's increasingly dead weight hampering him. Thank God they hadn't turned on the lights before the mess began. If the living room had been lit, a trained monkey would have been able to hit them from the concealing darkness outside. But luck was on their side; not only did nothing hit them crossing the living room, but the bullet fired up at them as they descended the stairs missed.

From his place in the lead, Omi cleared the last couple steps in a flying leap. He tackled the shooter before he could get off another shot, leaving Ken to pray that there was only the one as he and his precious burden staggered. The cloyingly heavy, wet scent of fresh blood assaulted his nose; Ken gagged and held his breath, focused on getting to the other side of the charnel house without losing his dinner.

An exclamation of pain made him pause, even knowing that as a moving target, they would be harder to hit. Omi was on his knees, grappling with someone who was wedged tight in the gap between refrigerator and wall. He finally edged backwards, sitting onto his heels and drawing a half-wild, bloody apparition with him.

Yohji.

Ken cast a worried glance up the stairs behind him, the prickling on the back of his neck convincing him that they were running out of time. Worse, Aya picked that minute to regain consciousness and to begin struggling weakly to get free. They didn't have the time to waste for Omi to talk the hysterical man he had hold of into some semblance of calm.

"...down..." the groggy redhead demanded thickly. Ken wanted to snap 'no!' but Omi was shooting him a look of desperation. There was blood smeared liberally over the older blond's face, and he had lost his sunglasses somewhere, making his green eyes look too defenseless, and more than a little crazed. There was no way that Omi was going to be able to handle somebody who was almost a foot taller than him, especially not when it looked like he was the only one handicapped by the desire to _not_ get anybody hurt.

It was an if the universe was picking the worst possible moment to listen to him, Ken thought. No sooner had he decided that Yohji was slipping out of control, than the man snapped, lunging forward to whap his forehead into Omi's chin. The kid sprawled over backwards, taken completely unawares by the attack, dislodging the gun that he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Yohji pounced on it just as shots rang out up the stairwell. For a brief, staggering moment, Ken thought that the former detective _had_ been the one to fire, but then the drum of foot falls spun him back toward the stairs from the living room. One, no, two more were about to descend into the insanity. Omi couldn't take them alone; God only knew that, and while Yohji would normally finish whatever they had left, not today. Not like that.

Ken slid Aya from his shoulder, carefully straightening. The glittering violet eyes that met his were still confused, but gaining control by the second. There was something lurking in their clear depths that Ken didn't have time to explore.

This was crazy; they ought to be retreating for the garage, and sealing that door behind them. Instead, he snatched a lethal-looking kitchen knife from its rack and turned to face the stairs; he had to buy Omi as much time as he could.

He let fly at the first of the black-clad invaders, but missed, flinching at a wild cry from Aya. "No! Don't!" Aya staggered, arms out-stretched, coming between Ken and his target. The brunet tried to dance sideways, but the taller swordsman kept pace with him.

"Shit, Aya! What the fuck are you doing?!" he shouted, aggravated beyond belief. There was no _time_! Of all the times for Aya to interfere, this had to be the worst. A tremor of unreasoning rage spasmed through him, and Ken came perilously close to hitting his own teammate. Aya's generous mouth thinned down into a familiar obstinacy, and his chin jerked up defiantly. The moment stretched between them.

"I won't let you kill him. Enemy or not, killing is wrong."


	4. Chapter 4: Found?

**_Reflections: Found?_**

_Chapter Four _

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

Okay, Ken would have to be the first to admit to himself that he was having a bad thought: at that moment, more than anything else, he wished that Aya was wearing a strait-jacket instead of a hospital gown, because the man had to be certifiable. Much though he wanted to ask the redhead where that declaration, 'I won't let you kill him. Enemy or not, killing is wrong' had come from, now was not the time or the place. The intruders would be clear of the bottleneck presented by the stairs in a matter of seconds; he had to act _now_ or risk losing the chance that could save their lives. He growled, "Aya. Back off."

Weaving with exhaustion, Aya's determination was unshakable. Obstinate, he glared, eyes sparking fire, until they abruptly rolled up inside his skull and he folded in ungainly unconsciousness to the tiled floor. Ken let him fall, shoving away the uncharitable thought of _Serves you right!_ in favor of a headlong dive for an abandoned semi-automatic lying in the gore. Tucked, he hit on his shoulder, coming perilously close to skidding into the base of the massive Vulcan stove. Its solid, brushed steel front rang like a gong as one of the enemy's bullets struck it a glancing blow. With both hands, Ken swept the gun up and fired blindly.

A body tumbled limply down the final few steps to sprawl on the kitchen floor. It came to rest half on top of Aya's, blood leaving livid streaks across the white tiles. The remaining assailant fired a parting shot that put a four-inch hole into the front of a defenseless cabinet door and retreated back up the stairs, leaving Weiss in possession of the wrecked kitchen.

With Aya down for the count, the soccer player turned to Omi and Yohji. At least that situation had resolved itself without intervention; the frazzled teen was kneeling with the older man huddled against him, crying softly, face buried against his chest. Without a doubt, the kid was looking the worse for wear, too, with a collection of nasty bruises blooming across his exposed skin, and blood splattered everywhere. To be honest, they were _all_ getting kind of shabby. But at least being unconscious had knocked the fight out of Aya. Ken shook his head slightly. To paraphrase, the man's spirit was pretty damned stubborn, but the body was weak. A good thing, because the athlete didn't think he could have stopped the man if he had made up his mind to stick with his asinine 'no kill' thing. Instinct said that there was no point in pursuing the enemy that had got away, because he wasn't alone. They had at most a couple minutes before the reinforcements hit. They needed to leave before the outsiders could come back and finish them off. Then, and only then, would Ken allow himself to think about his partner's bizarre behavior. Forcing briskness into his voice, he demanded, "So what's the matter with Kudou, anyway?"

Omi shook his head. "It's hard to say. It looks like he took a major hit to the head. Plus, he keeps saying that he killed Asuka... I guess one of the bodies looks like hers. Or something."

"Great. Just... great." The soccer player bit back the f-word, striving for the control he normally used when dealing with the mob of kids that he coached. Later. Later, he was going to beat the tar out of Aya for his stupid stunt, and maybe wipe the floor with Yohji, too. He scowled fiercely at Omi, just waiting for the youngest member of his team to contribute so that he could plan on a clean sweep. The boy blanched beneath the dirt and blood plastered across his face, and held up a hand in self-defense.

"Not going there." he said fervently. "I'm good. Honest."

"Yeah." Ken snorted. He nodded toward the solid door that led down to the garage. "Move it, Bombay."

Omi hustled to his feet, drawing Yohji up along with him, and steering the staggering man toward the door. Ken rifled through the clothing of the nearest couple of the intruders, not surprisingly finding nothing of use. All of them carried clips of ammo tucked inside a web belt strung with small pouches, together with an assortment of other goodies: small ready-made plastique charges, lock-picks, a mini-Mag flashlight... But no ID, no convenient post-it notes with the address and phone number of their secret hide-out. Nothing that would tell him who they were and how they had gotten to the safe house, or what they had in mind to do now that they were there. Beyond killing Aya and his teammates. The athlete suppressed the urge to kick the head of the last corpse like a soccer ball.

A solid _whump_ from somewhere above in the house made Ken stuff the handful of loot into his jeans pocket and grab Aya under the armpits. It took some serious effort to haul the tall man's dead weight up off the floor and back into place over his shoulder. Ken staggered a little, off-balance from the surprising weight of the lean swordsman, and handicapped by needing a hand to hold onto Aya's beloved katana. Omi was waiting with a blatantly anxious expression at the open door to the stairs that would take them another level down.

"You're leaving footprints..." Omi commented. Damn. The bloody tracks meant that the enemy wouldn't waste any time exploring the other doors that led off the kitchen to storerooms and the staff apartments. Well, it couldn't be helped; acrid smoke was rolling down the stairs to the kitchen. The fact that it wasn't rising with heat the way smoke from a fire would made it abundantly clear that this was _not_ something that they would want to hang around to breathe. Omi yanked the heavy panel shut behind them, and shot the bolts through into the floor and ceiling. Nothing short of heavy equipment was going to be opening that door. Or the explosive charges that the invaders had on them.

"Hey," Ken gasped, jerking Aya's dead weight a little higher onto his shoulder. "They'll blow the door."

Nodding, the kid didn't seem surprised. It was what he would have done. "Down." he ordered. Then Omi slid past the older boy, rattling down the stairs and propping open the next door long enough for them to pass him. Yohji was already in the garage, leaning against the big black car, his face buried in his folded arms. The grate and thump of the bolts being slammed home to secure the lower entrance told Ken exactly where and what their hacker was doing. A bone-deep roar confused him, though, as did the broad smirk on the kid's face as he dashed past to get the backseat door for Aya.

"Collapsed the tunnel." Omi said with a pleased grin. "Let's see how much good their little bitty charges do them now."

Reasonable. The enemy would hopefully waste a few minutes on the now impassible stairs. With a little more luck, they wouldn't have a chance to get into a position that would hem in the car's escape. It was distinctly reassuring to know that the brainy blond was on their side. Ken folded Aya into the back, scrambling in beside him, as Omi pushed and pulled Yohji to the front passenger side seat before running around the vehicle to the driver's door. It ought to bother him that the seventeen-year-old was the one who was going to be driving, but Ken barely felt a twitch. Social conditioning might make him stress about having an underage driver, but his gut knew that Omi was second only to Yohji in his ability to handle a vehicle like the big Town Car. Although, it was sort of funny to watch him wrestle the seat as far forward as it could go to accommodate his shorter stature.

Omi ignored the obvious ramp up to the official garage door, instead driving between two massive support pillars and into a darkened passage that nearly scrapped the sides of the car. He didn't bother turning on the car's headlights, trusting to instinct to shoot him up a steep slope that would have done a ski hill proud. The doors of the back exit slid to the sides, and the glossy black car bounced over a row of low evergreen shrubs, heading for freedom. Flames were leaping behind them, turning the sky and landscape orange and red in a lurid parody of the fading sunset. Omi swerved around a half-seen SUV parked between two trees, and gunned the engine. Shots pinged off the car's body and rear window.

Their route took them bouncing across grass, and between trees that loomed suddenly out of the growing dusk. Before Ken could shout in alarm, Omi finally turned on the headlights, but in a way, that made their careening rush more heart-stopping. The worst part was that Yohji hadn't said a word, just huddled deeper into the embrace of the front seat. That apathy was somewhere between out-of-character, and downright terrifying.

Growling, the kid floored it and flew straight at a section of the fence bordering the estate. The car bounced once more, lurched, and went briefly airborne as they crashed through the chain link mesh. There was frightening moment when the dragged fencing threatened to tangle around the car, but it tore free as they skidded onto a narrow road. The car fishtailed, then settled into a smooth, proper retreat that – hopefully – wouldn't attract them the attention of non-combatants. Within minutes, they merged into the stream of cars flowing toward the distant light of Tokyo.

* * *

Ken woke from a light doze with a jerk, and cursed softly. He had intended to stay awake, to take both shotgun and rearguard since neither Yohji nor Aya were up to the task. Irritably rubbing his stiff neck, he met Omi's eyes in the rearview mirror as patches of light from the street lamps alternately illuminated and concealed, and winced as the kid gave him a small smile. 

"It's okay, Ken-kun. No one had managed to catch up before we were lost in the traffic on the freeway. We'll be at a drop-point where we can switch cars in a few minutes. And after that, it's only about a half-hour to a new safe house."

Trust the boy to know exactly what he was obsessing about, and to both answer his unasked questions, and to not blame him for falling asleep. It made him wince guiltily, though. Omi had to be every bit as wrung out, now that the adrenaline rush of the fight had worn off. "Hey, you want me to drive for a while?"

"Not right now. Maybe after we switch cars, if you want." Omi checked the adjacent lane, signaled, and slid the big car smoothly over. They were matching the speed of the flow of traffic, hiding in plain sight by being exactly like everyone else, although the black Town Car with its heavily tinted windows was hardly ordinary. Eyes flicking to the mirror again, the younger assassin caught his disgusted look, and grinned. "We need one of those little flags diplomats put on their cars, don't we?"

The thought of how silly that would look surprised a bark of laughter out Ken. "Oh, please! We need to attract less attention, not more."

"Eh... It might work... People see what they want to see. If they see 'diplomats,' they won't see 'blood-stained guys fleeing assassination attempt.' " Yohji's voice, sounding groggy and strung out, but sane, joined in. The lanky man rolled his head and neck against the plush upholstery, even more miserable than Ken for having slept in the moving vehicle. He continued with unwonted seriousness, "How long was I out for?"

Omi's answer was oblique. "They hit Aya's room right about sunset... say 5:45. It was nearly full dark when we got out of there. Maybe 6:00? I didn't look at the clock until later, after I'd been driving around for a while... but it's coming up on midnight, now."

The former detective responded to the implied request with more contrition than normal, still beating himself up over what he perceived as his failure to hold his own during the assault. "I... ah, I guess it was about the same time. I went down to the kitchen, and was going through the fridge when I felt somebody come up behind me... Never try to garrote a wire man, ya know? I took the first one down, but there were more of them... I got whacked upside the head before I could yell. I think I was still fighting, but..." His voice died away in a soft, choked moan and the man buried his face in his hands.

A chill ran down Ken's spine. Yohji _had_ fought, and apparently done pretty well, if the number of bodies and amount of blood strewn about the shiny steel kitchen were any indication. But thanks to the distraction that his dead ex represented, he could have died all the same. He opened his mouth to say something to that effect, but Omi's image in the mirror shook its head warningly. Ken grunted and looked away, distracting himself by checking on Aya instead.

The tall redhead was huddled into a surprisingly small space, shivering a bit as if he was cold, despite the fact that Omi had turned the car's heat up until it was almost uncomfortable from Ken's point of view. Still, Yohji seemed shocky, and God knew Aya was far from being well enough, even if he hadn't been dressed in a stupid powder blue hospital gown. Ken supposed he would just have to tough it out, especially when the unconscious man let out a tiny whimper, as if he were in pain, or maybe tormented by a nightmare. Tensing in anticipation of a counter-attack, Ken pressed his palm to Aya's forehead. No fever, which upped the odds on it being just a bad dream; as if any of them _just_ had bad dreams anymore. He shook his head slightly at that, and withdrew to his side of the car. There was no point in tempting fate by continuing to touch when he shouldn't.

Aya was definitely thinner than he remembered.

Ken rubbed his own forehead pensively. The car they were in was well-stocked by Kitiker standards with weapons and such, but obviously had no personal items, like clothes. And that was going to be a problem. Aya wasn't quite as tall as Yohji, but with his slim build, it was still going to be a tough finding something for him to wear. Aw, hell. It was going to be a problem for all of them, he thought sourly as he picked at a patch of dried blood that flaked from his face. They were all a mess.

In retrospect, it was a good thing that they had gotten stuck with the Lincoln; there was no way Aya would have fit into a smaller car without being forced into contact with one of his teammates, and that was a distracting thought all on its own. The sculpted muscles of his bare calves were like a dancer's... or a swordsman's... sleek and powerful without the dense bulk that Ken was used to seeing in his own legs whenever he wore soccer shorts. It reminded him of meeting Aya on the Koneko's back stairs. The tall redhead had been on his way down from the flat rooftop that he often used for his early morning bouts of meditation, or practice, or whatever the heck it was, and had been clad only in loose workout pants, barefoot and bare chested in the cool light. The charcoal gray drawstring pants had slipped dangerously low on his hips, exposing the cup of his navel and the first few hairs of a rill of red gold that disappeared into his pants. Translucent, milky skin that was puckered by the thicker white of scars revealed the blue and rose of veins, and smoothly working muscles underneath: the line of the upper trapezius, deltoid and pectoral muscles, on down to his abdominals. Baffled and irritated, Aya had stopped short on the stairs, just a step higher than Ken, and the athlete had stared silently until realization turned him beet red, and he had turned tail and fled. Lusting after a teammate, no matter how beautiful, was a terrible idea. And that the person he wanted was Aya just made it a dozen times less appropriate.

Frowning, Ken again considered that Aya's haircut had to be the worst. Maybe whoever it was that had held him captive deserved to be wiped off the face of the earth just for that? The too short strands left his face open and too vulnerable in the flickering street lights, and Ken figured that Aya would hate that. The looks that made him stand out in a crowd were as much a shield to hide behind as his infamous temper and nasty attitude. Having seen Aya force himself to behave during the art auction, Ken now recognized that his companion wasn't quite as curmudgeonly and socially inept as he liked to come across. Taken together, it meant that Aya didn't want anyone close. Didn't want to be wanted.

Or did he? Shit, why had the man gone and hugged him like a teddy bear, anyway?

The fact that the car was slowing and turning a corner penetrated the fog in Ken's brain at just about the same time as Yohji's "Oy, Kenken. We're here." The older blond was sounding more normal, which was to say frivolous, and twisted around in his seat to give Ken a wink. Ken scowled. It wasn't like anything had been going on in the back seat, so why did the pain-in-the-ass playboy have to act like that? Belatedly, it occurred to him that Yohji hadn't been teasing, that the blond had been doing a bit of hiding behind masks of his own, but by then it was too late to play along. With a long-suffering sigh, Ken resigned himself to now having to put up with Yohji's attempts to cheer _him_ up.

The well-lit underground parking lot was apparently devoid of people. From the confident way Omi pulled in to park next another large sedan, it had to be secure, but something about the echoing combination of white-painted concrete, and aisles of empty vehicles gave Ken the willies. At least this time Yohji could help him shift their unconscious swordsman to the new car, because getting out of there fast was high on his list of priorities.

It was the new car made him pull up short, and blink. If Kritiker expected them to not attract attention, they were going about it all wrong. The brand-new Toyota Crown was distinctive, with its side profile that resembled the Japanese calligraphic figure for 'one.' There weren't enough of that model on the streets to _not_ turn heads. As if the metallic, midnight-blue paint job weren't noticeable enough, they had to travel in a statement for conspicuous consumption. Omi and Yohji shot the athlete nearly identical looks of amusement.

"Ne, Kenken," the taller of the pair drawled, "We're doing what they won't expect. I'll take you guys to the safe house, and keep on going to another drop site."

Oh. Decoy. The blatant car would be good for that. Grudgingly, Ken had to admit that it made sense. If Yohji was up to holding himself together, that is. He caught Omi's intense stare, and realized that that was the point; they were giving Balinese something to do precisely so that he could focus outside his own problems, and function.

One disaster at a time. They still had to contend with an Aya who couldn't take care of himself, when they had no doctor, no medication, and not even clothes for him. There was the question of who their attackers had been, how they had found the safe house, and why they were after Weiss. And, they had yet to make contact with Manx and pass what little intelligence they had on up the line. It was looking like another sleepless night.

* * *

Aya was awake, and Ken was beginning to think it would be nice if he would pass out again. Not that the redhead was doing anything _wrong_, per se. He had just smiled faintly and passed up on a chance to grill them for the details of their escape, was all. When Omi mumbled a confused protest, that smile had grown broader, showing a sliver of white teeth and putting tiny creases at the corners of eyes gone luminous with sudden humor. Aya had spoken in that deep voice of his, saying "I trust you." Then he had walked away, going deeper into the apartment to see if the previous occupants had left any clothing behind, while his two partners stared at each other with identical, shell-shocked expressions. 

The slender man came back a few minutes later, belting an old yukata around his waist that left his bare ankles exposed. The soft, dove-gray silk patterned with wisteria seemed like a woman's robe, but it suited him, muting the fire of his hair in the room's dim light. Fastidious as his code name, he had taken the time to clean up. None too subtly, Omi nudged Ken in the direction of the kitchen sink and a roll of paper towels to do likewise, but the brunet was entranced into watching their teammate. There was a subtle difference in the way he moved. He still had the unconscious, prowling grace of a jungle cat, but the defensive, hostile tang had gone out of it. Aya moved like someone supremely comfortable in his surroundings: aware, but not on the defensive. Omi twitched, reminding Ken that his young friend hadn't seen the strangeness that was the new Fujimiya before.

The kid opened his mouth to say something, and shut it again with a snap. Resigned, the brunet shrugged. Omi was smart, he would think of a way to justify everything, and life would slip back onto its tracks again. The swordsman padded past them, oblivious to the confused stares. Ken followed the dazed regard of the blond assassin, noting how the boy's fair skin paled, then flushed as Aya sank down to squat on his heels in front of an open cabinet in the narrow kitchen.

Oh. He could see why Omi was distracted. The thin, unlined silk was clinging to the ridges and valleys of Aya's back and hips, molding itself with unseemly intimacy to a body that was at once thin to the point of starvation, and muscled like a professional's. The tarnished silver of the fabric rippled and shone with the least movement. Seeing the mingled hurt and anger flooding the boy's stiffening body, Ken grabbed Omi by the upper arm and hustled him off to the side in case this turned out to be an argument that got ugly.

"Shit. Merciful Kannon..." Omi was murmuring. The words fit well with the stunned, glazed look to his face, and the beads of sweat that he was developing along his upper lip. The transparent lake-blue of the boy's eyes suddenly sharpened, and he focused them accusingly on Ken. "You jerk! Is _that_ what you meant by Aya not being Aya?"

"Well, yeah..." Ken dropped his grip on the blond's arm, and scrubbed sheepishly at the back of his head, instead. He fully expected to get himself reamed out, but the kid wasn't interested in recriminations. In fact, he was ignoring Ken completely as he sank down to perch on the edge of a chair in the living room. "I can't believe I just scoped out Aya. What is wrong with me?!"

Well, that explained a lot. Ken was delighted to have a fellow traveler on the long road to dementia. He patted Omi's shoulder. "It's strange, isn't it? Aya almost looks like a normal person, doesn't he?"

The irritation in the glare the kid speared him with was tempered with a little mortification. "That man will never look normal. But it's like someone flipped a switch, and turned off all the hate in him. Even when his sister woke up, he was never _happy_. Now he is."

Ken kept half an eye on the slim form in gray at the other end of the apartment. Aya didn't seem to have heard their vehement, hissing whispers. He rose smoothly from his crouch, unthinkingly shaking out the yukata's skirt as he moved down the kitchen counter, taking out a pot, filling it with water, and moving over to the stove. Within minutes, the smell of miso filled the air. Their teammate was standing in front of the stove, outwardly at least calm in the aftermath of an evening spent with people trying to kill him. He reached for a packet of dried sea-weed and slowly added bits to the simmering soup.

"Omi-kun, get the bowls." he said shortly. Ken relaxed marginally; that had sounded like the Abyssinian he had been accustomed to work with. But then the man had to favor the hacker with a tiny smile, and the unforgivable word "Please?"

"Um. Okay..." The assassin swallowed hard, and hissed out of the corner of his mouth at the older boy who followed close behind, "Now what?"

Fatalistic, Ken shrugged. "We go eat miso, I guess."

* * *

The light dinner was somewhere left of surreal. They all knelt around a low table. Aya's hands shook too much under the weight of the big bowl, so Ken ended up doing the honors and serving them, while Omi handed around rice crackers and an assortment of pickles he had found stored in a cupboard. The older man didn't speak any more than he normally did, but his quiet, relaxed air was so out-of-character that he wouldn't have shocked his teammates any more if he had stood naked on the table and done karaoke. The soccer player realized he was humming "Jonkara Onnabushi" by Yoko Nagayama when Omi shot him a reproachful glare, and shuddered. 

"If you're going around the bend, too, I'd prefer if you didn't do it singing enka. Yetch." He stacked the bowls and retreated to the sink to wash up. Ken trailed along behind.

"I was just thinking how Aya couldn't get any weirder, even if he got up on the table to sing-- "

"Please! I don't need that image, thank you very much." His shudder became melodramatic as he threw a dish towel at Ken's face. The brunet snagged it out of the air and took a spot beside him to help with drying the dishes. He held his peace, having figured out that Omi was bothered by what he saw. Ken considered the boy's reaction, weighing it against his own. There was a lot less anger and confused hurt, this time. Maybe it meant that he was getting used to the strange shift of personality?

Dishes done and put away, the pair of them drifted back into the living room. Ken stifled a yawn of epic proportions. The apartment they had taken refuge in was part of a series of lofts built into a refurbished warehouse. The walls were mostly exposed, sand colored brick, except for the wall of glass concealed by drapes that made up one side of the living room. Fighting down another yawn, Ken poked his head into the other two doors – finding that they also had a small bathroom, and one big bedroom. He paused in the door to the latter, registering that the darkened space had one very big western style bed in it, and that Aya was curled loosely in the middle of it.

The sleepy man levered himself up onto one elbow, trading stares with the younger assassin until Ken dropped his eyes and glanced away. He was about to turn on his heel and retreat to the living room, when quiet words trapped him, "Ken-kun, Omi-kun, please come join me. The bed is more than large enough for all of us."

Omi made a sputtering sound of equal parts hysteria, and disbelief. There might have been a sliver of humor in there, too, because the kid snorted and said, "What the heck. The worst that can happen is that he wakes up and kills me, right?" But that apparently wasn't the worst. The blond entered and gingerly sat down on the near edge of the mattress, only to have himself be pulled firmly onto the bed, and the gray silk-clad arm around his waist draw him down to spoon with their normally stand-offish partner. The kid went rigid with terror, wide blue eyes drowning in as his pupils expanded with a rush. Aya apparently took no notice of the effect he had, instead calling peremptorily over his shoulder, "Ken, come to bed. Now."

_Yohji is going to pop a cork..._ Ken thought, shaking his head. He kicked off his borrowed slippers at the side of the big bed and slid under the covers by Aya's back. There was no way he was going to get through this without a loooong explanation. He was just dozing, imagining the consternation on the senior Weiss' face as he found the three of them snuggled up together, when the distant sound of a muffled thump jerked him back to full consciousness. A brief, confused image of a peacefully sleeping Omi, head pillowed on Aya's shoulder and fingers locked tightly around a handful of the yukata's collar flashed by, mingled with an _Oh shit! Not again!_ as Ken rolled from the bed and into the cover afforded by a dresser against the wall. By the time he glanced toward the bed again, its other occupants had evaporated.

Aya scuttled in a crouch toward the half-open door, gray silk skirts rucked up around his pale legs, halting, back against the wall just within the deep shadow cast by the still lit living room. Shifting into the Abyssinian's hunting stealth, he went still, staring patiently through the crack formed by the door's hinges. A flicker of shadow moved in the room beyond. Ken frowned, forcing himself to remain motionless even though he vibrated with the need to _go_, to attack. Sure enough, after a long moment, a second, and then a third noiseless apparition flitted by. They didn't have a lot of time before the intruders finished securing the small apartment and came looking for them.

The minute tensing in the redhead warned Ken that the man was readying himself. He was unarmed, and he was thinking about fighting? The soccer player shot a frantic look Omi's way, to where the kid was pressed to the other side of the open door, willing the petit blond to wise up and pay attention. But the kid was equally focussed on the living room, a hand loaded with silver needles held low by his side to conceal their tell-tale gleam. He wasn't paying the least attention to Ken's frantic eye-brow wiggling and finger-signing.

Aya's sword was lying on top of the dresser, inches above Ken's head.

Okay. He took a deep, calming breath. There was no way he could toss the weapon to his partner without the faint but distinctive rattle of blade in sheath giving him away. The best he could do would be to grab it, himself, when the situation exploded. Ken had no illusions about his own skill as a swordsman – they were somewhere just above nonexistent – but he had trained using a short staff and it would work just fine for that. Aya used the iron sheath for blocking all the time. It would be okay. He would just pass the blade off during the fight. They had done that sort of thing a hundred times. His heart was thudding so loudly in his chest that he swore the enemy would be able to hear it.

Just then, the door to the building's main corridor clattered open, and Yohji's cheerful voice rang out, "Honey, I'm home!" and the lights went out in the big main room. Aya flittered through the bedroom door a half second ahead of Omi, the two of them vanishing as Ken snatched up the sword and followed. A faint, distinctive whine that his back-brain recognized as Yohji's wire being played out came from his left, just as a soft _thud-rustle-grunt _pin-pointed the location of another team member. A bright muzzle-flash and muffled _thhwpt_ gave Ken a direction to go on for a target, and he redirected his full-out rush, clearing the couch in a bound. The sword's sheath impacted the gunman's wrist, in all likelihood breaking it, and a punch to the jaw put the man down.

The lights came back on.

Yohji was leaning casually against the wall beside the switch, the soft whine of his wire retracting the only sound he made. Omi straightened from behind the back of a chair, warily searching a room that had gone from pristine to bloody mess in a matter of seconds. The team's collective gaze settled on Aya, stretched on top of a squirming, black clad figure, holding one of its arms twisted up behind its head. Yohji expelled his breath explosively. "Aya! Just kill him already!"

"No." The reply was a bit breathless, but even without the concealing fringe of scarlet hair, there was no mistaking the stubborn set to the other assassin's jaw. Ken steeled himself unthinkingly against the 'killing is wrong' remark that he was sure would follow, but Aya said nothing, just tightened his grip until his captive was gasping in agony.

Omi strode cautiously closer, dropping down to sit on his heels at a safe distance to stare at the prisoner. "I think..." he said slowly, "That we have a problem." The boy's gaze flicked up, lighting briefly on each of his companions. "Are any of you wondering how they got here so quickly?"

"Aa." Ken grunted. Now that Omi mentioned it, it was pretty strange, at that. He knew that the kid had done a careful job, following a circuitous route that should have revealed any pursuit. And, knowing Omi, that had extended to checking air traffic chatter and any other frequency that he could eavesdrop on, using the big car's equipment to its fullest. The only way the enemy could have found them would have been to ferret out and put a watch on every Kritiker hide-out – which was damned inefficient since they hadn't known in advance which one they were going to wind up at themselves, and had maintained the communications blackout with Manx and Birman afterwards. Unless they had managed to pick up a tracking device?

The same chain of thought had obviously run through everyone's minds. Yohji lit a cigarette, tucking the lighter back out of sight in the pocket of his tight jeans. "But where...?" he murmured softly. "They wouldn't have had access to the Lincoln, and besides, we switched cars. We didn't take any gear from the estate."

"Except for Aya's katana." Omi pointed out reasonably. Ken glanced down at the sheathed weapon doubtfully. What the hacker said was true; it was the only thing beside themselves to come out of the safe house. But it didn't seem possible that they had managed to plant a bug on it during the brief melee. _The only thing besides ourselves..._ A painful tightness gripped his chest, and his hand clenched involuntarily on the sword.

"Did you check Aya over, after we got him back?"

The smaller blond flinched at that. "No, I didn't." he admitted. Aya met their eyes, eerily calm despite the still struggling figure that he had pinned to the carpet.

"Hey!" Yohji protested. "Aya's been stripped naked, checked over by that idiot Nariakira _and_ by the hospital, and probably by the cops, too--"

"And you know as well as I do that there's more than one place to hide a tracker!" Omi retorted. He spread his hands wide, apologetic. "I should have checked. I'm sorry."

The genuine grief in the kid's voice over the last part forced Ken to speak up. He shook himself and pushed away from the brick wall. "Forget about it. What's past is past. I mean, it's not like **_I_** thought about it before now, and neither did anybody else." He joined the trio on the floor, leaving Yohji standing behind him. "Since this safe house is compromised, we need to get moving again. Let's check Aya over, and see if Ninja-boy here can tell us anything, and then hit the road. Okay?"

Omi straightened and stepped over the swordsman and his captive. "Copy that. There's some stuff stashed in the wall safe in the bedroom. Let me go take a look at what the powers that be have left us."

Yohji finally took pity on the struggling pair and played out some of his wire. "Here, let me tie up the package for you." He looped strands tightly about the wriggling man's ankles, his wrists, and passed a noose about his throat. Aya rolled away, leaving the lanky man to address the prisoner in a typically pleasant way, saying "If you struggle, you'll strangle yourself. Just so you know."

Ken ignored the one-sided exchange, focussed entirely on their redhead. Not too surprisingly, Aya was winded, and an unhealthy pallor had settled across his features. But he was still conscious, and was half-sitting, half reclining on his elbow on the floor. That was more strength than he had shown mere hours earlier, when he had been attacked at the mansion. The enforced rest in the car during their flight, and again in the apartment had helped. Without thinking, the soccer player rose to his feet and extended a hand to the other man. "Come on. Let's get you up onto the couch. You can rest a bit more while Omi-kun does his thing. Okay?"

Aya shot him a glare of pure exasperation, but accepted the proffered hand all the same. Ken had to rock back on his heels to counter the man's weight and height, but it worked to get him up from the floor. But the really amazing thing was that the taller man voluntarily leaned against him, allowing Ken to shoulder some of his weary weight, and also allowing the younger assassin to lead him to the couch. Once there, Aya murmured "Thank you," so softly that Ken could almost have sworn that he imagined it.

He turned to find Yohji staring at the two of them with a dawning comprehension in his green eyes. The former detective held back whatever it was that he was considering, turning instead to Omi as the kid bustled back in with a small black duffle and a laptop case in his hands. He was grinning. "Not as good as my own gear, but good enough."

The amount of gadgetry that he pulled out of the duffle bag was staggering. Ken recognized a lot of it: head sets for communications, a widget that could unscramble the codes on electronic door locks, smaller bits and pieces that could be used in all sorts of interesting ways... Everything from timing an explosion to tapping a phone line. The kid's childishly small hand unerringly selected a rectangle that looked more like a calculator than anything else, and plugged an ear-bud into it. "This picks up on broadcast signals. It's meant for eavesdropping on conversations via cell phone, or whatever, but I can play hot-and-cold with it, too. If that doesn't work, there's a wireless card in the laptop, and some software that might help us out."

It took him less than thirty seconds to locate the microchip that had been inserted under the skin of Aya's scalp, just above his left ear.

"Woof." Yohji muttered quietly. He was speaking for all of them. The twilight violet of the swordsman's eyes went unreadably dark, and he held absolutely still while Omi murmured another apology and sliced open his skin to get the chip out. His hand shot out, catching the startled boy by the wrist when he went to move away. "Keep checking." he commanded.

Omi and Ken both flinched at the raw emotion in the two words. They had heard Aya loose it before – who of them hadn't? All it had taken was sighting a member of the Takatori, and the redhead had been known to ditch a mission and allow fury to lead him. But this was different. This was Aya acknowledging that his presence was putting Weiss at risk, and demanding that the risk be neutralized. At whatever cost.

The kid shot Ken an uncertain, wavering look, silently pleading for help. Shit, it wasn't as if he had a clue what to say, either. No, that wasn't true. Aya was right. They had to be certain, and as Manx and Birman had so carefully pointed out, Aya had been out of their hands for weeks. Who knew what booby traps he might represent? In the end, Omi did locate a second chip, concealed behind the soft ginger curls of the older man's groin. He whimpered, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, reversed the knife in his hand and offered it to Aya. Yohji burst out laughing, and a tiny smile even tugged at the redhead's lips. Their amusement just made the kid's blush burn brighter.

"Oh, shut up." he grumbled. "It's not my fault you're all perverts." The older blond snerked, choking on a wisecrack, and ended up having to sit down. Aya efficiently removed the hidden chip, and set it on the low table beside the first one. Still pink, and still avoiding looking anyone in the face, Omi prodded the tiny black rectangles thoughtfully. He spoke quietly, "At the risk of setting you jokers off again, these are the same kinds of chips that veterinarians use to tag pets, so that they can be identified and returned to their owners if lost."

"Aya as a kitty? Oooh, that's original." Yohji sputtered. Ken whapped him in the back of the head, but it failed to stop his snickers. Omi rolled his blue eyes expressively.

"No, stupid. It means that the chips are cheap, readily available, and impossible to trace. We can leave them here, which will probably do nothing toward throwing off pursuit, but they won't tell us a darned thing about who's chasing us."

"So? Aya very thoughtfully kept one of them alive for us. We can ask him."

"No, we can't. He's dead." Aya's low voice was full of some unidentifiable emotion. Startled, Ken turned to their captive. The swordsman was right; during the brief lull while they had searched for the trackers, the man had pulled the wires binding him taut, and silently strangled himself. The slender redhead lurched up from the couch, ducking the automatic hand that Ken extended toward him. Unfamiliar anguish twisted his pale features almost beyond recognition. "Don't--"

"Aya!" Ken wasn't sure if the shout came from Omi, or from Yohji; he only had one thought and that was to intercept the distraught man. But recovering from injuries, or not, Aya was quick on his feet, and graceful. He evaded Ken's efforts to catch him, and slammed the door to the bathroom behind his retreating form.

They exchanged bewildered glances. Yohji swore softly, and spoke for all of them: "Shit! What the hell was _that_?"


	5. Chapter 5: Clues

**_Reflections: Clues _**

_Chapter 5_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

The remaining three members of Weiss exchanged confounded looks. It was fairly obvious that they were all wondering precisely what had caused their red haired teammate to bolt. When Yohji and Omi's concentrated attention settled on him, however, Ken found himself backing away, hands raised to fend off whatever it was that they were going to throw at him. "No, no..." he protested. "I don't care, and I don't want to know. If you guys are planning something, you can do it without me."

As the most senior member of their little group, Yohji took it on himself to be the spokesman. He advanced on the retreating Siberian, a wicked grin splitting his face. "Hey, Kenken, it's gotta be you. You're the one the new and improved Fujimiya responds to the best."

"No fair! Pick on Omi. _He_ ended up in bed with him, too-- "

"In _bed, too_?!" Oh, that just tore it. Ken could practically see the gears turning in the older man's head.

"Not like _that_." he insisted. "And besides, Omi was _there_, too!"

As if that was a defense. The grin had turned to an evil smirk, and Omi was giggling. The younger of the blonds managed a passable imitation of Aya's no-nonsense tone, saying "'Ken. Come to bed. Now.' " before collapsing into the couch.

Ouch. That hurt. Ken scowled at both of them, and stalked off toward the bathroom. "Fine." he muttered angrily. "I'll see about getting him to come out. But that means you two get to call in the clean-up detail. I am _not_ dealing with the mess." He shot them a final, furious glare, tapped peremptorily on the closed panel, and yanked it open.

Aya was sitting on the rim of the deep tub, staring with horrified fascination at his hands, the fingers of which were twisted convulsively together. He didn't even glance up when Ken strode in and slammed the door behind him, but his whispered words made it clear that he was aware of the younger man's presence: "Ken, I can't get the blood off of them..."

"Aya..." Ken fell silent, unsure of what to say. All joking aside, whatever it was that had happened to the red haired assassin was not funny. It had left him stripped bare, and vulnerable, even as it allowed him moments of peace. He stared at the bowed head, catching sight of a faint glimmer that dripped silently from his nose, landing inaudibly in a darker splotch on the gray yukata. Aya was... crying?

A different kind of pain twisted in Ken's gut, and without thinking he found himself stepping into the swordsman's personal space, wrapping his arms around the man's lean shoulders. Aya was stiff to the touch, then, hesitantly brought his arms up around the brunet's waist, and hugged him as if the world were coming to an end.

Maybe it had? Ken threaded his fingers through the shorn silk of Aya's fine hair, rocking gently onto his heels, and back. A tremor ghosted through the thin form in his embrace, but the man was absolutely dead silent, not allowing so much as a whimper to escape him. Bemused, the soccer player let his eyes drift shut.

It was... nice... holding, and being held. But they were still running out of time. He sighed quietly. "Aya, we have to get going. This place is compromised. We probably should have been gone a while ago."

"I know." Even muffled, the resignation was unmistakable. "I just wonder when it will end. We keep killing. It never stops."

A chill drove away the lingering warmth Ken felt. Carefully, he stroked the crown of Aya's head, fingers following the curve of the skull beneath down to the rigid lines of the tendons in the back of his neck. "They were trying to kill us. There's nothing wrong with defending ourselves."

"Tell that to the innocents whose lives we've destroyed."

It was odd to hear the older man give voice to one of his own worst fears. Ken couldn't remember the number of times that he had started awake from a nightmare where the solid, meaty impact of his tiger claws was ripping the life from some kid, or a woman with wide, scared eyes. It had happened; they had all taken the lives of people who didn't deserve that fate, where the punishment was too severe for the crime. But for the sake of his own sanity, Ken continued to believe that what they did was necessary, and right. The Dark Beasts that they hunted were the ones that the law couldn't touch, who would destroy far more innocents than Weiss at its worst ever would.

"But when does it _stop_, Ken? When is enough, enough? And how can we take Kritiker's word for it all?" Desperate, Aya pulled back from him, staring up with haunted violet eyes that were dry, but suspiciously pink-rimmed and exhausted.

"Take Kritiker's word?" Bewildered, Ken flinched when steel-strong fingers bit into his upper arms. Aya's hard grip would leave bruises.

"Yes. _They_ tell us who the Beasts are, and we kill, without questioning their motives. Even when we learned that the Takatori controlled us, we kept on doing their dirty work." Anguished, he averted his gaze, leaving Ken to stare at him with dawning horror. His voice sank till it was barely audible. "I became a Hunter for revenge, and for the money, Ken. I told myself it was okay, that I was doing it for my sister, for Aya-chan. But I was lying to myself. Even then, I _knew_, on some level, that what I did was wrong. I can't do this anymore."

"Aya..." What could he say? The swordsman had been a loner, had belonged to other teams and even been a free-lance, while Ken had always belonged to Weiss. The younger man had no idea what life had been like outside the confines of the unit, what Aya had seen, and done, before joining them. But at the same time, he had a sharp recollection of sitting in the mission room of the Koneko, with Manx asking who was in, and who was out, and Yohji flippantly turning down an assignment because there were no pretty girls to rescue. It sent a shiver down the brunet's spine as he realized that nowhere had there been a question of right, or wrong, that that decision had never been within their grasp. Aya had had a choice, and had surrendered it. And now he had come to regret what was already past.

"Ken! Aya! Move it out, boys!" Banging on the bathroom door nearly jolted Ken out of his skin. The vulnerability of Aya's demeanor vanished – life-giving rain falling on barren ground only to be completely absorbed as if it had never happened – leaving the younger Weiss to mourn a lost opportunity. His companion rose smoothly from his seat on the wooden tub's rim, reverting with each step to the Abyssinian's cold control. Ken realized that he missed the stranger that Aya had briefly become, and without thinking, he snagged the taller man's elbow.

"Wait—You don't have to do this. It's not your fault the guy you caught killed himself." he said urgently. The bathroom was cramped enough that Aya couldn't avoid him, and Ken took advantage of it. They were so close together that he could feel the rise and fall of the lean chest and feel the soft brush of fabric against the back of his hand. Startlement widened those odd colored eyes, driving home the realization that there was only two or maybe three years between them in age. Ken stared up into bleak, graying lavender, and added fiercely, "It was his choice to commit suicide, just like it was his choice to attack us. He could have backed off. _You_ had nothing to do with it." That said, the athlete reached blindly behind him and wrenched open the door, fleeing before he could give in to a half-formed desire to do something more to convince Aya. There was a line he couldn't cross. Not and live with himself in the morning.

His headlong retreat nearly plowed Omi into the carpet, which was kind of surprising considering that it had been Yohji's bellow that had ended their bathroom confidences. "What's the situation?" he snapped. The kid's eyebrows shot up into concealment behind his messy bangs. His eyes tracked Aya as the man's slender form slid past the bottleneck at the door and into the living room. There was a subtle stiffness to the erect back that hadn't been there earlier.

"Um, we have a car, we left a message anonymously that a clean-up crew is needed here, and we've decided to go to Villa Weiss."

"What?" Shock drove any lingering thoughts of a certain redhead out of Ken's brain. "What the hell? We have a known connection to the cabin. We can't go there."

"Yes, we can." Yohji interjected firmly. "We need gear. All of us need clean clothes by now, not just Aya. And we need to quit fighting a defensive war. It isn't win-able."

The last had the feel of being paraphrased from a quote, and to distract himself from the rest, Ken hazarded "Sun Tzu?" The nonsequitur made the older blond blink, then smile grimly. "No, an American general, from the time of their Civil War. Too bad he was on the losing side."

* * *

Since Yohji had been awake without a break longer than anyone else, and Aya was still too weak to pull his own weight, Ken found himself as the designated driver, with Omi as his co-pilot. The other two had ended up in possession of the back seat, which was a little strange considering that they were the tallest members of the team. Aya had curled up with a borrowed blanket directly behind the driver's seat, while Yohji was sprawled out as far as the minimal space permitted, with his head tipped back, mouth open for a low snore, and a new pair of sunglasses concealing his eyes.

Ken wished that he hadn't insisted on driving. He would have said he was feeling about sixty percent annoyed at getting stuck with the job while the others got to sleep, and maybe twenty percent annoyed at Omi for keeping up a steady stream of directions and chitchat, with the rest being a slow burn of anger toward the unknown enemy that was forcing them to keep moving, but the truth was that he was just about one hundred percent worried about Aya. Turned so that he leaned only on the car door, and not against Yohji, the man looked miserable and alone.

Still, even with Omi's careful doubling back and diversions, they were pulling up in back of the mountain cabin just as the sun was clearing the peaks to the east. The valley below was cloaked in deep shadow, lit by the occasional bright star of a yard light, or the slow red blink of a traffic signal still on night mode. The clock built into the sedan's dash read just after 4:30. Yohji stretched when the engine fell silent, and Omi twisted around in his seat to chirp brightly, "We're here!"

"Urgh..." Grimacing, the detective licked his lips experimentally. Mornings were never his thing, unless he had stayed awake the whole night through, so it was no surprise that his expression was surly in the diffuse light. He unfolded from the back, grumbling "I'll go see if I can get the power and heat back on. You guys get Prince Charming inside, and see if there's any food in the kitchen, because once we get settled, we're not setting foot where anybody can see us until we know what's going on."

Ken bristled at the curt tone, even while logic said that Yohji's orders were only common sense. The house was frigid, closed up and untenanted as it had been; it made sense to fire up the generator and light the pilot on the central heating system first thing. Likewise, they would be better off with one quick trip into town to grab supplies, and then lying low, than allowing the neighbors to know that the four of them were back in residence by being visible all the time. But it irked him that Yohji just assumed that he would follow orders. The figure ambling away toward the generator shed wasn't his senior in Weiss by _that_ much, nor his elder by so many years. A low growl that Ken wasn't aware of making cut off abruptly when Omi leaned over and tapped him on the nose.

"Relax, Ken-kun. This means you get to take Aya-kun upstairs and find him something warmer to wear, and Yohji-kun is stuck with trying to prime the engine on the generator. Which would you rather do, anyway?" The kid grinned at him, winked, and slid out of the car. Startled, Ken stared as the boy loped up the steps to the kitchen porch two at a time, then a tiny smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He remembered the generator; with a little luck, Yohji would be cursing in the shed till well past breakfast.

Still smiling, he climbed into the back beside the sleeping assassin, speaking his name softly while reaching out to stroke the fall of hair that was nearly burgundy in the dawn light. His wrist was captured in a cruelly tight grasp before he could so much as lay a finger on Aya. Ken squelched his immediate instinct to fight back, and waited as eyes dark with confusion and exhaustion blinked slowly open.

"It's me, Ken. Remember?" He made his tone as soothing as he could, meeting a gaze that slowly lightened from storm clouds and mountain shadows to the color of the flag iris they stocked back at the flower shop. He stifled a pulse of longing to comfort and protect; the growing lucid sharpness staring back at him didn't invite those kinds of feelings. _If I don't think about this, it isn't real..._ Ken told himself firmly.

"I remember you." The deep voice that had no right to be so sensuous raised the hairs on Ken's arms, even as Aya released him and opened the door on his own side of the car. The brunet shook his head hard, wondering what the heck was getting into him. Reacting to his partner like that was worse than stupid, it was suicidal. Which was probably why he dashed around the hood of the car in time to get an arm around the slender man before his wobbly legs dumped him on the ground.

"Okay. Call me suicidal." he muttered in resignation.

"What?" Taken unawares, Aya didn't struggle to free himself. When a shiver ran the length of his body, he even seemed to snuggle closer. Ken shook his head again, grumbling "Suicidal _and_ stupid. Sheesh!" Unexpectedly, the taller redhead snickered, and permitted Ken to pull an arm across his shoulders for the agonizingly difficult climb up the steps.

They were both sweating and breathing hard by the time they reached the second floor landing. But before they could negotiate the long hall to Aya's room, the man pushed him away. "Bath first." he said resolutely.

"Sure." Ken shrugged and obligingly fumbled in the dark for the doorknob. At least the second floor bathroom had a skylight that faced east, making it brighter than the enclosed corridor since it didn't seem as if Yohji was having any luck with the generator. "It's gonna be cold, just so you know." he warned over his shoulder. "I mean, the heat's finally on, but it'll be hours before there's enough hot water to fill the big tub."

Aya hung back. "Why are you doing this?"

"I meant to check on where you were bleeding back when we were first attacked, and I never did. Now's a good time." A cabinet yielded a box of emergency candles and matches, and while the first gush of water from the sink tap was orange, it soon ran clear. Ken gave a hum of satisfaction and turned to look for towels, only to find his way blocked by a redhead wearing an obstinate scowl that oddly wasn't as scary as it used to be.

"That's not what I meant." Aya rebuked him, and Ken felt a hot flush turn his cheeks pink. The air of centered calm had returned to the older Hunter, and weirdly enough, it was no longer so completely foreign. "Try again." he commanded.

"I know it's not. But it's not like I have any better explanation. I'm just tired." The soccer player didn't mean to come across so defensive, but it beat blurting out a counter-question of 'What happened to _you_?' as he desperately wanted to. How could Ken tell Aya that he was acting weirdly because Aya had started it? But the excuse was accepted at face value. The older assassin slumped wearily and went to work peeling off yukata and bandages until nothing remained except the splint holding his little finger to its neighbor, and he was naked and shivering despite the puff of warm air blowing from the vent beneath the edge of the sink cabinet. Ken sighed, mentally smacked himself across the back of the head, and picked up a washcloth.

* * *

"Look, I'd _love_ to hit the bastards where they live, but in case it escaped your attention, you moron, we don't know who they are!" Furious, Ken threw his chopsticks onto the table and paid no attention when they bounced and rolled off the edge, down to the floor. Omi made an exasperated noise and disappeared below the level of the table's surface to retrieve them.

Yohji gave the younger man the finger, but resisted the urge to descend to his level verbally. Instead, he helped himself to another scoop of rice from the covered pot and continued eating.

"Tanagawa." Aya said abruptly. When the other three turned expectantly, he folded his arms across his chest and refused to add anything more.

Well, yes. 'Tanagawa.' Ken sighed. The events of the previous night hadn't really changed the inherent logic of sending Yohji and Omi to scope out the brothel and its former employees – they just made him even less happy about splitting the team in two. They had yet to contact Manx or Birman, and he suspected that the Kritiker handlers would be even less pleased. But what choice did they have? Aya hadn't been able to give them a single name of any substance, and the only person he had been able to conclusively identify turned out to be a whore that Omi already had on his list of lower-level victims of the police sting. He claimed to have been held in a constantly lit room, location unknown, for a length of time that was also unknown, and by persons unknown. Questioning him turned into an exercise in futility, with the redhead becoming progressively more mulish. There was probably more hiding behind Abyssinian's calculated silence, but they might never get at it. Someone had to go back to Tanagawa instead.

But Ken would be damned if he _liked_ the idea.

Aya was looking much better. His bruises had faded considerably, and washed and fed he was almost his old self. It helped that he had dug out a turtleneck and a thick sweater – although not, thankfully, the orange monstrosity he liked to wear around the Koneko – to wear with an aging pair of blue jeans. His eyes flickered rapidly from one teammate to the other, assessing the unspoken parts of their conversation. What was different, and shockingly so, was the fact that his normal dark impatience had been replaced with humor and something approaching affection. It was damned disturbing. Ken sighed again, something he found himself doing with increasing frequency, and tried to address his partners with logic instead of temper.

"Let me go instead of you two. At least I don't stick out like a sore thumb, right?"

Omi coughed and unsuccessfully fought a grin. "What? You don't want me to dye my hair again? I didn't know you cared, Ken-kun."

Of all the times for the kid to resume flirting-- ! Before the other boy could do more than open his mouth, Aya's white hand flashed out and swatted the youngest Weiss upside the head.

"Stop it. The reason is valid. The people who have been hunting us know what we all look like. Ken is the most typical of the district you propose to search, and as such will attract the least attention."

The three of them stared, jaws dropping. Not only had the red haired assassin just said more in one go than normal, he hadn't come across with the mix of rigid disapproval and cold anger that were his norm. And he had swatted Omi. Under his breath, Ken muttered, "...we control the horizontal, we control the vertical..." and for once, Yohji shot him a look of complete agreement.

* * *

Squashed into a cheap-fare seat on the vibrating train, Ken was mourning the demise of his most ancient and disreputable pair of jeans, because there was no way in hell he was ever going to be caught wearing them ever again, not after Yohji had 'improved' on them by adding rips in a couple of strategic places. Especially not after the other man had draped himself down the length of Ken's back, breathing "Deliciously fuckable" in his ear. Ken shuddered, eyeing his reflection in the train window. The perpetual state of embarrassment made him blush and stammer, and returned him to a time when he constantly tripped over his own feet. But taken together with the slightly-too-large, sleeveless green tee that was obviously second-hand, it also made him look awkward and a bit waif-like, shaving several years off of his actual age. It fit with his cover story. Dressed like that, he really could be Achira, drop-out college freshman, with no family and no prospects. Just down on his luck enough to have turned a few tricks and to have drifted into a hole like Tanagawa.

He closed his eyes briefly against the rocking of the train car, fighting down the nausea that rose to the back of his throat. They had role-played a couple of scenarios before Yohji had dropped him within walking distance of the tracks. If anyone asked, 'Why Tanagawa?' he was to shrug and mumble, 'Why not? It was on the news.' Not only would it establish his rootlessness, it would give him an in to ask for gossip about the police raid, and about the stranger found locked up in the brothel's basement.

But it could back-fire. The one current news bulletin that Omi had found on the internet had been ominously silent on the official response to Aya's disappearance from the hospital and from police custody. It was more than a little disturbing. What if he was walking into a trap?

No, coming in and playing it cool was the right approach. So long as he kept his head down, and didn't attract too much attention, he would be okay.

Tanagawa was only a few stops farther down the line. Ken made the mistake of trying to watch the cityscape that flashed by just outside the window, its lights blurred together into long streaks, and hastily shut his eyes against the queasy motion. Another thought occurred to him. Oh, God, what had he gotten himself into? It was likely he would have to give someone a hand job, or maybe a blow job to win his way into the confidences of the other whores. And he had been thinking disgusted thoughts over what _Aya_ was willing to do for a mission. The difference, of course, was that this was by his own choice... He swallowed hard, turning to the idea of Omi almost being the one going out to do reconnaissance. He was pretty sure that the kid hadn't gotten any farther than necking and some basic fumbling around on any of his dates. Didn't Aya care that it had almost been the most junior member of Weiss going out tonight? Wait a minute... Ken blinked, something about the familiar non-conversation with their reclusive redhead hitting him: that prick had been subtly influencing their decisions. He knew better than to try to forbid Omi anything outright, but had resorted to some below-the-belt – pun intended – nudging none the less. Aya had set him up.

Ken expelled his breath in a woosh. He _ought_ to be royally pissed, but for some reason, he wasn't. It was weird.

The train slowed, halting for a couple of minutes before rushing on into the growing dark. It wasn't sunset, but rather that they were leaving behind the dense urban landscape, roaring through a down-at-the-heels industrial district on their way out to the nearer suburbs. Like much of that side of Tokyo, Tanagawa was mainly post-World War construction, inexpensive and largely pre-fab, with rows of identical, ugly houses and blue collar factories. There weren't many office buildings... Probably more bars in the neighborhood, actually. Going there ought to kind of feel like going home; the orphanage Ken had spent most of his youth in had been in a place just like Tanagawa.

And who said, 'you can never go home again?'

* * *

Christ on a crutch, but his feet _hurt_. Ken paused to roll his aching shoulders for a minute before turning down a side street. He had been wandering the thin red-light district for over two hours, and he hadn't found a single person who knew anything concrete. And it wasn't because people were shy of talking. Hell, no. He was now privy to the intimate details of several sordid lives, and had damn near gotten himself fucked against a wall by a drugged-out teenager who had thought he had money. The kid had shrieked obscenities after him, involving some gestures that Ken recognized as punk for 'moron,' and 'loser' at the same time. It was a good thing that an aging Nissan had rolled to a stop at about that point, distracting the brat, because the other prostitutes had been getting a good laugh out of it at Ken's expense.

Business was beginning to sag a bit as it approached one in the morning. The ex-soccer player tucked himself into an alley doorway, wearily dropping down to sit on his heels as he leaned against the grubby metal door. If it hadn't been for Kritiker, he could have wound up in a place like this, once he was out of the hospital... Superstitiously, Ken scrubbed at the fading burn scars on his arms. He was getting cold, and the cheap denim jacket he had pulled on wasn't doing the job anymore. He flinched at the low, rhythmic moans coming from deeper into the narrow alley. Christ, people would do it _anywhere_. The noises hit their peak and ceased. A moment later, he heard the brisk sound of footsteps moving away, heading for the other end of the passage, and then the dragging, bone-tired sounds of someone coming his way.

"Fuck, I'm getting too old for this..." a hoarse, feminine voice muttered. "I should go find another place with a bed."

Startled, Ken coughed. _With a bed..._? Like, maybe, the Hot Body?

"Who's there?" The woman was coming closer, hostile and edgy. There was a distinctive _snick_, and Ken peeped out to the doorway to see the flash of light on the steel of a small switchblade. He knew he could take her down, but it would be kind of counter-productive, so he settled for standing up and saying, "Um... Hi?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I, um... just got in, from, ah, over by Shinjuku? And I was looking for a place to stay...?" Ken couldn't help it. Nerves made his voice slide up helplessly into an interrogative, making everything come out tentative and scared.

The woman groaned softly. "Fuck, not another kid." She put away the knife and fumbled for a lighter instead. By its flickering light, Ken caught a glimpse of beached blond hair, in frizzy, knotted curls, and a full busted chest squeezed into a halter top that had to be at least a cup-size too small. But it was her face that captured him; behind the garish make-up, she couldn't be more than a couple of years older than him. She took a long drag on the cigarette. "Go back to Shinjuku, kid. You don't want to be here. This place is only for losers."

"I, uh, can't. Like, I've got no place to go." He hated the pleading note, but at the same time, he felt a pulse of excitement; he was very nearly sure that her face had been in the array of mug shots that Omi had downloaded from the police. Tentatively, he took a step toward her, leaving the safety of the recessed doorway.

The woman sighed. "You got any money, kid?" she demanded. At his reflexive flinch, she groaned. "No, I'm not offering to do you. Are you hungry? There's an automat that's okay down the street."

His stomach growled, always willing to eat. To be honest, she had only half-misunderstood his reaction; he had been thinking how to introduce the topic of the whorehouse before the conversation derailed inevitably into sex, not that she was propositioning him. The offer of food was even better than he had hoped for. Ken nodded, trying not to come across as over-eager, but she smiled in the twitching light from the neon signs at the far end of the alley. She turned and easily began sashaying down the cracked concrete, somehow avoiding fissures and trash in her high heels. Ken hurried to catch up.

Not unexpectedly, his new-found friend didn't offer to buy him supper when they reached the diner. She shot him a sideways glance, taking in worn clothes and the battered backpack that he carried in the harsh florescent light. There was no attendant on duty, and no other patrons, so they had the scruffy place to themselves. Ken fished the pitiful wad of crumpled, low denomination notes from his pocket, and winced again. This time, it was over the selection of wilted sandwiches and aging fruit going around and around on the little shelves behind their scratched plastic shutters, but the woman again misunderstood.

"You gotta eat, kid, and this is about as cheap as you're going to find."

Ken cut a quick glance at her. The halter top was almost the same brilliant shade of deep crimson as Aya's hair, and the matching miniskirt she had on was even shorter than what Manx and Birman liked to wear. But her chocolate brown eyes were sympathetic behind a veil of cigarette smoke. He fed money into the vending machine and picked a pre-packaged noodle-cup at random, figuring that it would probably be safe to eat. There was a water spigot under a tattered 'Warning: Hot' sign at the end of the counter. By the time he turned back, the woman had an unidentified, lumpy package in cling-wrap sitting in front of her, and a steaming cup of muddy coffee. Ken slid in opposite in the narrow booth, twitching a little to find his back exposed to the plate glass windows and anyone who might pass by. Cautiously, he asked, "So... What's your name?"

"Honey." The English word sounded odd, and it took a second for his brain to process its meaning. Oh. It was probably a professional name, because he was pretty sure that it wasn't what Omi had had on the computer. She unrolled the wrapping, revealing a couple of triangular rice balls that looked basically edible. "How about you?"

"Um... Achira..." he stammered. God, he had almost answered Hidaka Ken like some newbie. And he had been doing this line of work for how long? Without thinking, the rest of his cover story stumbled out, his dinner companion nodding and making occasional noises around her food. Honey looked incredulous when he offered his lame excuse of 'because it was on the news,' though, remarking "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"But you know about it, right?" Ken persisted.

She shrugged, displaying a little more of that impressive cleavage than he was completely comfortable with in the process. "Sure, I know about it. I was even there when they brought in that guy, the one they found in the cellar."

He couldn't believe his ears. She had seen them bring in Aya? Ken struggled to keep the urgency from his voice, to tone it down to just typical, ghoulish interest, like spotting a car wreck in the opposite lane on the freeway. "So, who brought him in?"

"Beats me. Couple of foreign guys. Jesus, the man was a mess – they beat him up pretty bad." Losing interest, she slurped at her cooling coffee, and grimaced. The stuff was bitter enough that it was beginning to stain the paper cup from the inside out, and was probably going to do a number on her stomach.

"Were they Americans?" Even though it brought a sharp suspicion to her mascaraed eyes, Ken couldn't let it drop. He had to know if they were Benson's goons, or not.

"No..." her reply was slow, obviously weighing his need to know against what a teenager like him would normally want. "One was French, or something. He spoke colonial, like he was from Vietnam, or something? The other guy was from one of those East European countries. I don't know... Russian, or Bulgarian, or whatever. He had black hair, slicked back, but he wasn't Japanese. I'd never seen them before, but they knew the owner, Mishakawa, and he let them in, so I assumed it was okay."

The nationalities of Aya's kidnappers had the brunet confused, but he filed the information away for later. Omi could probably make something of it, or maybe it would spark some recognition in their swordsman. Better still, he had a lead: the Hot Body's owner had known them.

Honey's hand with its long, blood-red artificial nails snaked across the faded yellow formica, catching Ken's wrist. "You're not a cop, so what's your interest in this?"

Shit. He was no good at hiding from her searching gaze, blushing and stammering, "No, I mean, you're wrong. I'm-- "

"Lying to me." she finished. Honey released his wrist, calculation clear on her sharp features. She wasn't particularly pretty, despite her assets and the frizzy mop of curls, but there was above average intelligence in her. "You know that guy, the redhead, don't you?"

Ken froze, caught in the headlights and about to get run down. Double shit. Aya would have his balls if he found how badly Siberian had screwed up. He'd always had a tendency to say whatever popped into his head, and was never any good at schooling his open features to secrecy, but this was way beyond his usual level of ineptitude. "Um..." he squeaked, uncertain of which way to run.

The woman leaned back on her side of the table, stretching until her top threatened to pop. Now that she had Ken, the intensity had relaxed, and she could afford to settle back. She smiled, musing, "I kinda wondered what they had him for... I mean, gorgeous piece of ass, but not the sort that the Hot Body usually supplies. I figured that they were stashing him for some high-priced place in Tokyo, you know? Wearing him down until he was more cooperative. There are lots of people who'll pay good money for a looker like him, willing or not."

A shiver of fear ran down Ken's spine. Crap. They had discussed and dismissed the idea of some lone stalker type going after Aya, but what if it had been an organization? Benson had leapt to the conclusion that the surviving son of the Fujimiyas had a sugar daddy, so why wouldn't someone else think the same? And maybe take steps to act on the idea? His thoughts had to have been clear on his face, because Honey suddenly frowned, leaning back in to examine him. "God, kid." she murmured. "You didn't know any of this, did you? You came here trying to get information on your buddy, and you have no fucking clue."

"You could be wrong." he argued desperately. "They might have grabbed him for something else."

"Sure. Whatever you want to believe, kid." The calculation was back in full force as she shrugged away the momentary concern. Aya wasn't anyone she knew, so the details didn't really matter too much either way. Honey smiled craftily. "But I do know how you can find out."

"How?" In his eagerness, Ken upset the dregs of his noodle cup, spilling thin yellow broth across formica that was nearly the same color. He didn't care.

"Mishakawa always kept the security tapes that had anything interesting on them off-site. I'll bet you that the one from when they brought your friend in is one of them. I might happen to know where you could get a copy... if you get my drift. I just need a little help with my memory." Her smoker's hoarse voice was seductive, and belatedly, Ken recognized the fever-brightness to her eyes. She was a junkie, and probably in need of a fix fairly soon to keep her energized and happy. He was torn; there were a couple of large bills folded into the bottom of his shoe in case he would need to buy information at some point, but he really didn't want to let Honey know that she had him. On the other hand, a tape with footage of Aya's captors was beyond his wildest dreams; they had all just assumed that whatever there had been to find had disappeared into the black hole of the police investigation, never to be seen again. Even Omi hadn't found a trace of any usable evidence, and the kid was _good_.

"How much will it take to refresh your memory?" asked Ken abruptly. His mouth had opened and made his decision for him.

"Five hundred thousand yen." she replied promptly. Ken paled, contemplating how much money he had on him, and how much more he had sitting in his checking account. There was more than that, of course, but he had tied it up in some investments to benefit the orphanage where he had grown up. He could access it, but not easily. Yet at the same time... the woman took a last drag on her cigarette, stubbing out the remnant in a black plastic ashtray sitting on the table. He took a deep breath and nodded.

"All right. Five hundred thousand." he repeated the number with a wince. That was a lot of money; about a month's income for him. A very good month. With jobs from Kritiker combined with the flower shop's proceeds. Honey was quirking an eyebrow at him, obviously amused that he had given in so readily when the figure equally obviously scared the shit out of him. Yohji was going to bust a gut laughing, but Ken would show him what was what if the tape proved to be any good. He growled out a threat about what would happen if the tape _wasn't_ any good. The woman's grin changed to a smirk; she knew she had him. Ken moaned, scrubbing his hands up over his face. "So, when can I get it?" he demanded.

"Tomorrow night?" she suggested. Dismayed, Ken considered. A prescient dread was digging at him, and in the end he shook his head firmly.

"No. Tonight." Yohji had money on him, and it wasn't really _that _much. He just didn't dare let the woman out of his sight, or he was afraid he would never find her again, or their best hope to find Aya's assailants.

Startled, Honey blinked at him, confused by the sudden forcefulness after all his earlier stuttering and hesitation. Ken met her gaze steadily. "I'm going to call a friend of mine to bring the money, then you and me are going to go get the tape. We'll just wait for him here, okay?"

The blond whore shrugged. If they were willing to pay her more than a month's take home for one lousy video tape, she would give them the whole damned night. She tapped a fresh cigarette out and tucked the crumpled pack back into the waistband of her miniskirt.

They sat across the table from one another, conversation exhausted, until the low rumble of a motorcycle outside announced Yohji's arrival. The older assassin had opted for the ease of mobility that the bike offered, and had dressed the part, wearing worn black leathers and a bandana around hair that had been temporarily dyed to match. He paused in the door to the automat, taking in the bright empty space over the top of his sunglasses. Ken figured that he had rarely been so happy to see the playboy in his life. Yohji had no trouble spotting them since they were the only customers in the place, and stomped over, cycle boots heavy on the scuffed linoleum floor.

"Yo." he said casually. His gaze swept over Honey, noting her outfit, and for once not making any comment about it. Silently, he asked Ken if it was all okay, and equally quiet, the boy nodded. He was grateful that the other Hunter didn't feel a need to make an issue out of the sum of money, or to ask if he was really sure that the tape would be worth the effort. Yohji's steady green eyes slid back to Honey, but the roll of bank notes he drew from the tight front pocket of his pants went to Ken.

Sighing, Ken undid the rubber band and peeled off enough bills to meet the agreed upon price, leaving a sadly shrunken roll behind. He suspected that Yohji had planned it that way, intending for Honey to see that she had gouged them for all they were worth, and that it wouldn't be in her best interests to try to up the price. The woman grinned around her third, or was it fourth? cigarette, peremptorily holding out her hand. Ken put the wad of cash into her palm.

"Okay, lover boy," she cooed flippantly, shooting Yohji a coy glance. "Why don't you make yourself at home with a nice slice of pie, or something? The kid and me'll be back in a jiffy." Ken nodded. They had discussed it after his quick visit to the battered pay phone in the corner. The owners of the Hot Body maintained a discrete office away from the brothel, behind a dry cleaners. But with both partners taken during the police sting, there was no one left to run the meager betting operation at the other location, and it was left locked up tight. Ken wasn't quite clear on how Honey had wrangled a key for the place; it had something to do with her brother being hired muscle, and her occasionally serving as a secretary... And something bizarre about Mishakawa being a second cousin. Or something. It was a bit scary and incestuous to think of the bookmaking and brothel as a kind of family business, but there it was. Between spending the previous night on the run from someone else's assassins, and tonight prowling the streets of the suburbs, he was exhausted enough that it was all beginning to make a sort of sense. Honey strolled out the door, and the athlete had to hustle to catch up.

They didn't have far to go. The Hot Body, its façade dark and boarded up, was only a couple of blocks away. Ken had spent the early part of the night circling the scruffy building, sticking close to the building with its signs advertising "Girls, girls, girls,' and 'Live Entertainment,' as if it were just another sleazy club. Honey led them past the whorehouse, turning into the darkened mouth of a driveway near the far end of the block. The passage between the buildings looked barely wide enough for a delivery truck, a supposition born out by the scrapes and scuffs of paint on the weathered bricks. But the woman seemed to know where she was going, and Ken had no option by to follow when she materialized a small bunch of keys from somewhere on her under-dressed person, and unlocked an anonymous door set into the wall.

The air that rolled out was stale, loaded with the chemical stench of the dry cleaners up front, but it was much, much warmer than the outdoors. In the dim glow of the emergency exit light overhead, Ken could see that the cold had turned the woman's nipples into sharp peaks that poked through the thin fabric of her halter top; he had no idea how Honey could stand running around in virtually no clothes when he was freezing with a jacket on.

The ring of keys jingled as she selected another one and opened an inner door. They stepped through, her hand automatically hitting a light switch set into the wall illuminating a big room with several mismatched desks and awful brown pressboard paneling. Ignoring them, the blond crossed the room to another door, unlocking it as well.

The office beyond was only marginally nicer than the bookies' room out front. Two desks were crammed into a much tighter space, together with several file cabinets, a small copy machine, and a fax that had its own small stand. Honey fished in the knee-hole drawer of the first desk, and then used the key that she found on the other one. The big, bottom file drawer was packed full of tapes and junk.

"Crap..." she muttered. "Hey, do you remember what day your guy got snatched on?"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Exasperated, Ken shoved her out of the way. There had to be fifty tapes in there, some labeled with only a date, others bearing a post it note. He began stacking them on top of the desk, figuring that the one he wanted would likely be fairly recent and so near the top. If he could get the damned drawer open, he was just going to have to take all of the ones that were anywhere close to being right.

The drawer opened farther only with some difficulty, hung up on a black nylon bag. Something indefinable about it gave the young man pause, and slowly he wriggled it out of the cramped space, adding it to the heap of tapes. It wasn't terribly large – just a bit bigger than an overnight bag... At that thought, a puzzle piece clicked into place, and Ken turned the name tag dangling from the handle over with trembling fingers, half-dreading what he would find. Bold handwriting that he had seen a thousand times stated 'Fujita Masahiro,' and gave the address of a drop that they occasionally used.

It was the bag that Aya had taken with him when he had gone out on his solo mission.


	6. Chapter 6: Pictures

**Author's Rant**

Well... I know that Reflections is at the very least getting pinged, thanks to the hits counter at Media Miner, but I confess I was hoping that it would stir up a little conversation regarding plot bunnies, or style, or characterizations. For one thing, it would help ensure that I'm not missing the proverbial boat on some plot twist.

I suppose I shall just have to do it myself.

I have a great fondness for taking conventional plot devices and abusing them. But there are things that I really did expect someone to call me on. For example, Ken's leap to the conclusion that Aya wasn't Aya, and the subsequent discovery that he is. Why would Ken make that assumption? Truthfully, the logic isn't so strained, at all. When faced with a choice between acknowledging that someone has been hurt to the point of being altered to that extent, or the very improbably conclusion that he's someone else, the human thing to do is to take the improbable. And no one, not even Superman, is likely to have survived three weeks of captivity without being affected. I've tried to think of Ken as a real person, and to write his response as such, even if he – in his POV – doesn't express or even understand his reasons.

Another common plot device was trashed during Ken's encounter with the hooker, Honey. The standard (dum-de-dum) path would have been for them to arrange to meet the following night. Cue complications, possibly enemy inspired, and Honey isn't able to make it. Instead, Ken felt uneasy, and insisted on taking care of business immediately. It's what I would have done, and something that I have often banged my head against the desk over other writers NOT having their characters do.

At the present time, I've finished Chapter 8, and gotten started on 9. Because I'm posting nearly as I write, I'm being forced into a much more linear plot than my usual, and also arguably fewer twists than usual. That said, I still don't know how many chapters it will take to finish Reflections. The word count of the first draft of an Inuyasha fiction is the equivalent of a 400-page paperback novel. This story probably will not run anywhere near that long, as I don't have the luxury of doubling back to plant the seeds for new twists as they occur to me. (Although I may have to make an exception, and re-post in order to fix some grammatical and spelling errors. In particular, a wonderful friend, Shay, has pointed out that Omittchi is closer to the correct pronunciation than Omittche, which I occasionally have used. Thank you, Shay. I promise I'll watch for that in the future).

Enough ranting. I hope that those of you who are reading Reflections will enjoy the next chapter.

L.A. Mason

* * *

**Reflections: Pictures**

_Chapter 6_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

Judging by the collection of wrappers and disposable paper plates in front of Yohji, he had taken Honey's advice about the pie. And anything else that had caught his fancy on the revolving shelves. Personally, Ken would have given most of the food a pass; he didn't trust stuff that had been in the automat for who knew how long. But at least Yohji was willing to sweep the whole mess into a trash bin and hustle for the door when he saw them come back.

The blond woman glanced between the two men, still calculating and assessing. "How do I get in touch with you if I 'remember' anything else?" she demanded abruptly. The former detective returned her look coolly, considering whether it was likely or not. Finally, he pulled a low denomination bill from his pocket and scribbled the number of a voice mail service that they used across the back.

"Here. This should stick in your memory." He stuffed it down the front of her halter top and pushed past out the door. Ken followed without comment, leaving the whore standing in the doorway.

Yohji tossed him his helmet, and directed him toward the motorcycle with a bow and a flourish before setting a helmet on his own head. "Your bike. You drive." Technically, it wasn't, being just another of the loaner vehicles from the Kritiker stable. The shorter athlete was too surprised to argue, slinging his leg over the machine as the older assassin took postillion behind him, strapping the black nylon bag onto the seat as well. Ken opened his mouth to say that it was Aya's bag, then closed it. There was no point in handing the watching woman any more information. It would have to wait until they were somewhere safe.

Safe. Now, there was a concept. His mind was too busy swirling around over the presence of Aya's small suitcase in the office of the men who had run the Hot Body. If it was only the swordsman's cover story that compromised, no big deal, but the question remained as to _how_ it had gotten there. Had they grabbed him as he was voluntarily leaving his hotel, or had they forcibly checked him out? And what had become of the redhead's laptop? Ken was barely aware of Yohji's arm wrapped around his middle, or the warmth of another human against his back, as they roared down the largely deserted streets. Even with taking a circuitous route to drop off the bike and pick up a car, they would be back at the mountain cabin soon, and he would just have to hold his questions until then. Even if it made him crazy.

It was too bad that it was so hard to hold a conversation while riding the bike; he would also have liked to ask the older Hunter what he thought about the series of attacks against them. Manx would be putting two and two together as soon as she saw the report from the clean-up detail at the loft, given that the attackers there and at the estate were largely the same. But it would take her a bit to track down their wayward team, and that was just as well. How could they be sure that they had been discovered only because of the chips secreted on Aya? For all Ken knew, there could be a leak from within their organization, as well. No one could blame him for feeling a little bit paranoid after a mob of people had tried to punch, shoot, blow up, and otherwise maim and kill him within the past twenty-four hours. Kritiker might pay the bills, but the brunet's loyalty went first to his team.

He sighed against the rushing wind of the bike skimming down a ramp into a parking garage at a substantially faster pace than was strictly safe. It wasn't as if Ken was stupid; he was nowhere near Aya or Omi's league for brains, or education, but he was smarter than most people gave him credit for. It wasn't his fault for hanging around with a couple of geniuses. And, truth be told, Yohji wasn't exactly stupid, either. There was something going on behind the tiny lift to his lips, and the humor in lazy, hooded green eyes. Yohji on a bad day was almost as cheerful as Omi, although he lacked the hyper-squirrel mannerisms. Ken had long since concluded that the blond's behavior was as much a shield as his sunglasses. Unfortunately, the man ignored his efforts to start a conversation, bundling them into a nondescript silver Mitsubishi and then driving up the ramp to exit onto a different street.

* * *

Being able to sleep in a moving car had both advantages, and disadvantages. On the plus side, Ken figured he was actually coherent enough to enter the codes on the remote in his pocket to disarm the house. On the minus side, however, his rump and back were now conspiring with his aching feet to make him miserable. The only good point to it was that the playboy looked every bit as exhausted as the younger man felt, with a cigarette hanging at half-mast from between his lips. Yohji leaned carelessly against the log wall of the cabin while Ken fumbled for the ordinary key to the kitchen door.

Once inside, Ken noted that although it was much warmer than it had been, the house still had that stale, closed up feel to it. There were a couple of dirty dishes abandoned on the counter, just as there had been when he and Yohji had headed out hours earlier, and a forlorn pile of groceries still sat on the maple table waiting to be put away in the cupboards. Granted, Aya was the anal retentive neat-freak in their household and he might not be up to it, but even Omi liked to see things put away. The pair must not have set foot in the kitchen after they had left for Tanagawa, and that was kind of chilling. Omi would at least have stopped down to get a can of Coke for himself, or to make tea for the convalescent man. Ken wondered just the heck where they were, anyway.

Some of the same thoughts had obviously run through Yohji's mind, because the blond straightened from his lazy slouch and slipped silently through to the living room. Ken rearmed the back door and went the other direction, passing through the utility room with its washer and dryer, checking the half bath tucked under the stairs, and coming through the hall from the den cum library just as Yohji finished testing the sliding glass doors of the balcony. The blond gave a tiny, negative shake of his head; everything was just as it should be, with no sign of an unauthorized entry.

Then again, Ken reminded himself, the estate that had been their initial safe house was supposed to have been wired with every defense known to Kritiker, including some that Omi couldn't breech. And they had gotten hit very hard there on two fronts, with no alarms or other warnings. If he and Omi hadn't been lucky enough to hear the water carafe and glasses in Aya's sick room get knocked down and broken, they probably wouldn't have survived the assault. Just because Villa Weiss was _their_ house was no guarantee that it would have fared any better. The two men exchanged uneasy glances. The house was dead silent. Too quiet. Yet the ingenious mix of physical and electronic protections on the house had been intact when they entered. There were no strange tracks anywhere in the light dusting of spring snow outside. There simply couldn't be anyone in the house but them.

Well, if there was no one in the cozy living room, then they would have to check upstairs. It didn't seem possible that both Aya and Omi would miss hearing them come in; it was more likely that Aya was out cold again, and that the kid had noted their arrival, and, being busy with his computer, had opted to blow them off. At least that was what Ken hoped had happened.

Exchanging a silent _Up? _and_ Yes, _they ghosted up the broad staircase, both hugging their own sides and avoiding the places where the treads creaked.

At the top of the stairs, the team's technophile's room was vacant, and dark except for the flowing fractal pattern of his laptop's screen saver. Omi had been in there, but not recently since the default time for the dancing lights to take over was ten minutes of inactivity. Faint light streamed out of the half-open door of the bathroom, next in the hall. The smaller fixture above the sink had been left burning, sparking a shiver of light every time the sink faucet dripped. There were damp towels hanging on the towel bar, but no signs of life.

Next were the open doors to Ken and Yohji's own rooms, diagonally across the hall from one another. Both were unlit and unchanged from earlier in the day, and would stay that way until they found the missing team members. Worried, the compact athlete had to hustle to keep up when Yohji mouthed _Aya_ at him and strode off toward the last door in sight. Same as all the others, it stood open, allowing only a dim light to spill out into the hallway.

On some level, Ken wasn't particularly surprised to find the missing pair inside, together, sound asleep in bed. Sprawled on top of the covers, Omi lay on his back, with Aya tucked snuggly against his side. From the door, he had a good view of the boy's normally sleek blond hair twisted into snarls that looked like someone had tried to get a good solid comb into it, and failed. Other than that, his head was tipped back, and a faint snore emerged. Even if that uncanny sixth sense they all had had made it clear to the sleeping Weiss Hunters that it was only their own who moved through the house, it was unnatural to see them so soundly asleep.

Was that how he had looked, Ken wondered, when the others had come in to find him in bed with Aya? It didn't seem possible. For one thing, Omi's shirt was unbuttoned nearly to his navel, ghostly shadows playing across the unexpected definition of firm muscles, reminding Ken that while the kid might be the smallest and physically least dangerous within the unit, to the sheep of the outside world he was a deadly assassin. And Aya's hand was lying across the boy's stomach, pale fingers and splint splayed across a warmer color of skin.

The scene was disturbingly erotic.

But at the same time, Ken felt bad when Yohji growled, lifted the redhead's limp arm, and peeled the startled kid out from under it. The fact that the boy must have been aware of their identities on some subliminal level was probably the only thing that saved Yohji from being turned into a pin cushion stuck full of deadly silver needles. They were halfway across the room before the petit blond's feet hit the floor and he began struggling to twist free, but the older man had his tricks, as well. Their hacker was trapped into a headlock and muscled out into the corridor in a matter of seconds, the door swinging shut in their wake.

"Yohji-kun! Ow! Let go, would you?" snarled a surprisingly non-cuddly Omi. Fury flushed his fair skin, turning him from cute to deadly. Ken figured the former PI had at most two more steps before adrenaline flipped the boy into his own version of a berserker rage. A hard shove into the log wall delayed the reaction long enough for Yohji to lean into the kid's face and growl back, "And what the fuck do you think you're doing? Trying to seduce him, or what?"

"You jack-- " The message within the words caught up to Omi's brain, and he froze, mouth still open. Paling, he swallowed hard, and squeaked, "I'm _what_?!"

Sneering, Yohji leaned closer, well into Omi's personal space, and flipped the collar of the open shirt with his index finger. "We come home, and what do we find? Mr. Sweet-and-Innocent in bed, dressed like a slut. Don't you have any respect for Aya, and the kind of crap he's probably been through during the past month, that you have to add your two yens' worth, too?"

"Me?!"

It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Neither of the pair had raised his voice above a harsh whisper, presumably in the hope of not waking Aya up, but the static charge they were generating was enough to raise the fur on a cat at twenty paces. Ken took an involuntary step backwards, unwilling to be anywhere near the epicenter of what was likely to be a very ugly explosion. Omi almost never lost his temper, but on the rare occasion that he did, it tended to be spectacular. Smallest and youngest though he might be, he could still terrorize Yohji into lending a hand during early shifts if they were backed up on orders in the flower shop, and had drummed it into Ken's head that dirty soccer gear was _not_ to be left in a trail on the floor to the shower, nor were soccer cleats appropriate wear indoors. It was funny what things were important enough to get a rise out of him, but they had all learned to live with it.

Yohji flicked at the loose, open front of Omi's shirt again.

"Hey! Lay off on the shirt! **_I_** didn't plan to show skin!" By some supreme effort of will, Omi reigned in his annoyance, barely managing to keep from flipping Yohji off. "It would be helpful if you could be a little more mature about this. Please?" Shifting to the right, out from being trapped between Yohji and the wall, he paused to gain Ken's nod of agreement before plunging on. The taller of the blond contingent seemed miffed at being ignored. "I didn't get to take a shower before you two left, so once the house was secure, Aya-kun and I headed upstairs. He wanted to rest while I got cleaned up. Afterwards, while I was in my closet digging for something to wear – you _do_ know I don't keep a lot of clothes here, right? This shirt is what I had – I heard talking... and realized it was all one-sided, like a phone conversation. I... could hear Aya-kun's voice, so I... went to see if I could find out what he was talking about, and maybe to who."

The kid did have the good grace to act embarrassed over his plain intent to eavesdrop. His gaze wavered, sliding to the side as he turned pink and floundered his way through the recitation. It was kind of sweet that while he could role-play and lie to a target so convincingly, he had trouble covering up even a fairly minor transgression when it came to his partners. Ken certainly wouldn't have been that embarrassed over something trivial like that. And it was even nicer that the boy could set aside the urge to kill the team's wire man in favor of what he obviously thought was an important revelation about Aya. Ken smothered a grin behind his hand, turning it into a quiet cough as Yohji took a step backwards, going from scarlet with anger to sheepish in a heartbeat. Collecting himself, Yohji shook his head in disbelief, demanding, "So? Did you? Find out who he was talking to?"

Omi's blue eyes snapped up, locking with the older Hunter's jade ones. "No one." he said firmly. "That's just it. There wasn't anybody there, because Aya was talking in his sleep." At Yohji's skeptical hike of one brow, the boy made a shooing motion, chasing away the unspoken protest. "Yeah, I know. I've never heard him talk in his sleep before, either. But it was that, or he was talking to little green men from Mars, 'cause he was spread across his bed like he had intended to just lie down for a minute until I was out of the shower. There was no phone. Nothing. Just Aya, asleep."

If it wouldn't have spoiled the moment, Ken would have applauded. The small assassin had survived a typically crude fight with the playboy, and come out of it with the moral high ground intact. Although, Yohji did have a valid point; dressed – or semi-undressed – like that, Omi sure didn't look like a baby anymore. The billowing looseness of the shirt added the illusion of bulk, while the glimpses of his smooth-skinned, muscular chest were just plain hot. Amused, Ken wondered if Aya had even noticed what he had been hugging close in bed.

Probably not.

But Yohji had noticed. The senior member of Weiss snarled something incoherent, and stalked off toward his bedroom, slamming the door without regard to their final teammate. Ken and Omi both winced, exchanging worried glances. The brunet shook his head foggily. It was too damned late – or early, depending on which way you took the fact that the sun had cleared the mountain peaks yet again – for this kind of crap. He turned away, intending to drag off to his own bed and deal with the whole mess later.

"Ken-kun?" The kid's voice was so small and lost, that the older boy found himself drifting to a halt despite his need to get to bed and get some shut eye, himself.

"What's the matter, Omi-kun." Patience. Ken sighed. He just needed a little more patience, and he'd be able to forget Tanagawa for good, or at least for a few hours of much-deserved oblivion. He was so tired he was dead on his feet. Still, this was Omi, who was just about his best friend in the world. Bed could wait a little while longer. He turned back, forcing himself into alertness.  
  
Miserable, the small blond shifted in place in the middle of the hallway, his slim hands swallowed up by the sagging cuffs of his long shirt, but Ken still had a glimpse of fingers pleating and worrying at the fabric. He was barely audible as he said, "I didn't want to talk about it in front of Yohji-kun, not the way he was going on about stuff, but..."

"Hey..." Gently, Ken ruffled the bright gold hair, and chucked the boy beneath the chin with a curled knuckle. "Have I ever let you down? You know that you can talk to me, so come on..."

A sniffle turned into a wry chuckle. "Yeah, I guess so, it's just... kinda embarrassing, after Yohji got so upset about me and Aya. But, I guess he had some cause, 'cuz Aya was, well, _petting_ me earlier."

"'Petting?' You mean, he _molested_ you?!" The urge to go straight back to Aya's room and clock him one cut right through the confusion that flooded Ken's mind. How _dare_ that son of a bitch--! Omi grabbed him before he could act on the thought, and dragged him into his room.

"No! Not like that. Like I was a cat, or something. It was really, really weird." Using Ken as a dress-maker's dummy, the boy's thin fingers mimicked an ephemeral companion stroking his hair, his tense neck, and down over his shoulders. It felt unbelievably good to let someone touch, and intuitively, Ken understood what was bothering Omi: was it wrong of them to enjoy another's warm hands so much? Hell yes, when the hands belonged to someone who would never voluntarily use them that way. Aya's hands killed. They didn't caress. Then Omi softly added, "I liked what he was doing. I wouldn't have minded if it _had_ gone a lot farther."

Oh. Suddenly wide awake, Ken felt his knees go weak, and he had an urge to sit down right where he was standing. This was Omi – the sweet-natured, gentle kid who was always happy, and kept the rest of their odd family on an even keel. He wasn't supposed to turn out to be the one who wanted _that_ kind of attention; he was too young.

Except that he wasn't. It wasn't a kid who stood in front of Ken with such an unwontedly serious stance to his delicate figure, steeling himself to take responsibility for what he had done. Expecting Ken to react the way Yohji had. The older boy groaned, dragging a hand through his dark brown hair. A stiff drink seemed in order, or failing that, breakfast. "Come on. I'll fix us something to eat, and we can talk about this."

Omi's lips twitched. "You? Cook? Geez, Ken-kun. I thought I was safe with you. If I'd realized you were gong to punish me, I wouldn't have said anything."

Growling, Ken swatted at the back of his head, breaking into a grin of his own as the smaller assassin giggled and easily dodged his blow. "Hey! I _can_ follow the directions on a box of pancake mix. Unless you'd rather have me try to fix a wholesome, traditional breakfast, with rice and natto for you!"

"Ew! Okay, I surrender. Don't torture me any more!"

* * *

In the end, it was Omi who made them breakfast. Not so much because he didn't trust Ken's cooking skills; although he did roll his eyes expressively at the number of utensils and surfaces that the athlete involved in the mess; but more because he genuinely enjoyed doing it. He was the one who had taken the time to learn the tricks to making a box-mix taste homemade, and he didn't see why he should suffer through an amateur's attempts. And Ken didn't mind giving up control that much anyway. He drowned his share of the pancakes in syrup, grinning happily, and asked "How did you learn to cook like this?"

The kid shrugged, waiting for his turn with the sticky bottle. "Self-defense, mostly. I got bounced around a bunch, whenever Manx was busy. If I wanted comfort food like this, I had to make it myself. And it's a good way to take my mind off of things, too."

Ken bit his tongue guiltily. While Omi might not have remembered his bastard relatives, the boy had known that there was something not quite right, even back then. It was no surprise that he had needed comforting as a child, or that there were things that he didn't want to dwell on. They were all so used to taking the littlest assassin at face value that they forgot how capable he was at throwing his teammates – people he had lived with, and killed with – off the track when he wanted to. Ken's jaw slowed and eventually stopped chewing altogether as he stared speculatively at Omi. "So, tell me," he drawled, "Did Aya really talk in his sleep, or was that just to throw Yohji off you getting it on with Aya?" and was rewarded by seeing a totally new shade of red hit every inch of the kid's exposed skin. The effect was pretty neat, sort of the human equivalent of a lobster hitting boiling water. Omi choked on his bite of pancake, and frantically poured himself another glass of juice.

"Ken!" he wheezed. "You're so mean!"

Grinning, the brunet thumped his friend on the back. "You betcha."

Omi glared, watering blue eyes turning pink rimmed. "Yes, he really talked. No, I didn't catch anything useful, just a couple of words. And 'you betcha' I'm gonna get you for this! To think that I trusted you, Ken-kun."

Laughing hysterically, Ken made a show out of rolling off of his chair and into a heap on the floor. Disgusted, his blushing opponent wadded up his napkin and beaned him in the head with it, sending his fit of humor soaring to new heights. By the time the older boy was stretched out on the floor, clutching his ribs and gasping for breath, Omi was trying to suppress his own giggles. Ken grabbed him by the ankle and yanked, dragging the smaller blond down to floor level.

"I really hope those guys upstairs can sleep through anything. I don't think I'd want to try to explain this." sighed Omi. He collapsed onto his back, using Ken's stomach as a pillow.

"Yeah." Ken replied. He rumpled his partner's already tangled hair affectionately, amusement giving way to exhaustion. An early breakfast wasn't the answer to everything; Yohji had been smart to retreat to bed with a final cigarette to calm his nerves. His eyes were drifting shut when Omi poked him in the ribs, and asked "So, what happened in Tanagawa, anyway? You guys were so wound up that no one ever told me about it."

Crap. No, they hadn't. Both he and Yohji had been so busy flipping over the team's baby brother being in bed with the team's resident grouch that the tapes and Aya's travel bag had slipped their minds. Ken waved a hand vaguely. "Um... We should probably wait for the other guys to join us. Basically, we found a bunch of the security video tapes from the Hot Body. I'm hoping that we've got mug shots of the guys of did this to Aya, because my only witness – so far – to Aya-kun ever even being there doesn't know squat."

"You found a witness? That's great!"

"Well..." Ken trailed off into a cough. "She's a hooker who used to work there. Not that Honey is stupid. I'd say the opposite, actually. But she only caught a glimpse the one time. And, I think she's telling the truth about that, because she really wanted to make some more money off of us." He hesitated, then decided he might as well satisfy the kid's curiosity. It wasn't as if there was too much more to tell. "Honey didn't know who took care of Aya. She thinks that possibly one of the strange men that were hanging around, or the other owner, Iida, must have because she never noticed any of the prostitutes employed by the house missing. There was no gossip making the rounds, either, which would have been the case if any of them had seen what was going on in the basement." Ken was reminded that none of the other people he talked to in Tanagawa had known a thing, and blessed his luck for letting him run into the one woman who had known something.

"Oh." Thinking hard, Omi stared at the underside of the kitchen table without seeing it. Temporarily stumped, he shook himself and said, "Why don't you go get some rest? I'll stay up since I have to write some kind of a report to Manx anyway, before she gets peeved enough to take matters in her own hands."

Half asleep, the brunet winced. The past forty-eight hours were not going to make them very popular with Kritiker in general, and with their handler in particular. They could make a good case that the swath of destruction wasn't their fault, but with two wrecked safe houses, and an unknown number of dead and wounded, Manx would want a damned good explanation. Omi was a past-master at spin-doctoring, plus he had an insider's knowledge of what made the red haired woman tick, but it would only buy them so much time before the fat was really in the fire. They needed to go through the tapes, and he hoped that there would be something worthy of the outlay of cash and the continuing risk to the group. He rolled over and dragged himself wearily to his feet. "Thanks, Omittchi. Come wake me up when everybody else is moving, okay?"

"Sure." The blond teen accepted a hand up from the floor and headed upstairs to retrieve his laptop. He looked as if letting Yohji beat him up would be the preferable option, but he gamely went to tackle the report instead. Ken chickened out and fled for his own bed.

* * *

Wandering the shadowed realm that bordered sleep, Ken mulled over Omi's confession. Resolutely, he ignored the odd fluttering sensation in his chest, determined to examine the situation rationally. The rational stance was that it didn't bother him particularly that the kid was attracted to Aya. At least it didn't once he got over the shock of Omi being interested in another human being, period. If he had been asked a month earlier about the kid's preferences, he would have said 'microchip.' But now that Aya had toned down the initial, overwhelming, happy-to-see-you vibe that had freaked Ken into thinking they had grabbed the wrong patient from that hospital, the attraction wasn't so far fetched. Personally, Ken subscribed to the idea that personal tastes weren't as black and white as people tended to make them out to be, anyway. Even the most ardent homophobe would find himself kicking for the other team if faced with the right person, and God knew that the redhead was handsome.

He yawned, squirming deeper into the soft comfort of his blankets. None of it said anything significant about Omi's sexual preferences either way, since he kind of doubted that the young blond had had much of an opportunity to find out what he liked. Oh, Omi was active in clubs and after school activities – to not be would draw even more attention – but there was no chance to develop a deeper relationship that way. Even the whole mess with Ouka would never have amounted to much if the girl hadn't spotted Omi on his way out on an assignment and gotten pulled into it with him.

The trick was going to be keeping Yohji from sticking his nose in. The older assassin was assuming that sex was a part of whatever had happened to their teammate while he was missing. Okay, so he _had_ been held prisoner in a whorehouse, but that didn't necessarily mean that Aya had been brutalized. Besides, being kidnapped and held against his will would have been bad enough for the independent redhead. Aya didn't need more to screw him up.

The only problem with the theory was that Aya was acting _less_, not _more_ screwed up than usual.

Lethargy was settling into Ken's limbs, turning them leaden and unresponsive. His eyelids flickered once. Yeah, helping Omi was going to be a real pain...

* * *

Great. Omi and Yohji were arguing. Again. For about half a second, Ken seriously toyed with the idea of tracking down the Schwartz team and seeing if they could use a hand-to-hand specialist. Of course, he might have to get them to bail him out of jail first, because he was _so going to kill those fuckin' idiots!_ Furious, he threw back the covers, grabbed the first clothes that came to hand, and stormed down the stairs.

The blond half of Weiss was faced off across the width of the living room, and judging by the mess of papers on the floor, one of them had pitched a temper tantrum with Omi's research notes as ammunition. White fluttered across the floor, settling in miniature drifts against the base of the sofa in a surreal cross between snow and autumn leaves. Ken arrived just as the kid drew in a deep breath, his fair skin turning dark with rage as he nearly screamed, "You demented moron! Do you have any concept of how hard I worked to get Manx _off_ our backs?!"

With deliberate slowness, Yohji tapped his pack of cigarettes against the heel of his palm, and extracted a stick. The lighter he carried came out of the other pocket of his tight jeans. The glint in the man's eyes boded no good, and sure enough, he blew the first stream of smoke straight into the younger Hunter's face. "Sure..." he drawled. "I can see what a hardship it must have been for you to run to Mommy." The kid paled, then went livid again. With a wordless roar, he launched himself at Yohji.

Ken wasn't even thinking as he hurried forward, which might have been why he didn't register Aya's presence until the tall man had already captured his sleeve. Recovering or not, the redhead had no trouble intercepting the shorter athlete, wrapping a warning arm across his chest. Ken blinked stupidly down at the dark blue knit of the sweater, exclaiming, "Say what?"

"Just watch." The low murmur above and behind his ear was accompanied by a warm breath that made Ken's bare toes curl inside his slippers. Aya's other arm settled around his waist, tugging him backwards into a hug that not-too-coincidentally also served to keep him from interfering. Ken jerked experimentally against his bonds, then got distracted by the action unfolding in front of him.

It was very obvious that Yohji wasn't taking the kid seriously as a threat, and it was equally obvious that Omi was fed up and not about to put up with the attitude anymore. It was the skinny playboy's own fault. As the boy rushed toward him, he casually knocked the little form to the side, only to discover that Omi wasn't there. Smaller and faster, he instead ducked the swat, and came up inside Yohji's guard. Omi kicked the side of the older man's knee with punishing force. As the leg buckled, the petit tornado whirled, landing a devastating kick to the other's unprotected groin. Yohji gasped for breath, turned an astonishing shade of purple, and dropped like a stone.

Omi dusted off some imaginary fleck of dirt from his drooping shirt sleeves, still so keyed up that he practically twitched. Then he stepped over the now-whimpering body, and strode off into the kitchen. A moment later, they could head the rattle of dishes, and the hollow-metal sound of the kettle being filled with water. The kid was making tea.

Ken simply stood frozen in stunned shock. Omi had just kicked Yohji's butt... or, to be more accurate, his something else, and all he could think about was the solid weight of his teammate's arms holding him steady. Aya's arms. Which he wasn't going to think about. Against a solid, lean chest that rose and fell with distracting regularity. Ken coughed, cleared his throat, and asked in an unnaturally high voice, "Is everybody losing their minds?"

"No. That's just been a long time coming." Amusement trembled on the edges of the baritone voice; Ken could almost _hear_ the red haired assassin's smile.

He wanted very badly to turn around and look at those pale, soft lips, to see if the corners curled up, and whether there really was a small dimple. But he wasn't going to. It was bad enough that he couldn't pretend that Aya was only touching because he was half-dead, or woozy with pain, or barely conscious... Anguished, the shorter man made a tiny, inarticulate noise and tried very hard to stand still. It became even more difficult when Aya's right hand, the one with the velcroed splint that held the last two fingers together as a unit, slid down his chest to clasp his left, holding Ken back against him.

"I thought these pants were going in the trash?" The teasing tone was gentle, barely there, but there was definitely laughter under the surface. Confused, Ken glanced down, sputtered, and felt himself heat with embarrassment. He had grabbed his so-called mission outfit from the floor. Including the ripped up jeans that he had sworn he would never wear again. And he had thrown them on without bothering to grab any underwear. Indignant, Ken snapped, "It's a good thing Yohji is already unconscious, or _I'd_ be the one hurting him.

At that, his partner _did_ laugh out loud, and not the harsh bark of sound that they were used to, either. Aya's arms fell to his sides, releasing the brunet, who turned with as much dignity as he could muster and stalked stiff-legged in the direction of the stairs.

God damned pants. God damned Yohji. And, damned Aya, too.

* * *

The technology represented by the video tapes was so primitive that Ken didn't know whether to laugh – or to cry. For one thing, 'video' was stretching a point; they were more like a collection of still shots strung together on a ribbon of magnetic plastic. Really, really _bad_ black and white still shots. Omi had hooked the TV and vcr up in a daisy chain with his laptop so that he could step through the images at several times the pace they had been recorded at, something like twenty-four hours worth of images being crammed onto each six-hour tape. He and Yohji were now sitting side by side on the couch as if the earlier fight had never happened, skimming though the debatable high life of the whorehouse together.

Whatever the little spat between the two blonds had really been about, it had cleared the air between them, returning their interactions to very nearly what it had been prior. Although, Omi still wore the large white cotton shirt with the sleeves that drooped over his thin wrists. And Yohji did still turn faintly pink whenever he turned toward the younger blond and found himself looking down the open collar at boyishly smooth skin, and surprisingly adult muscles. Ken shook his head slightly, resolving to avoid so much as touching the whole mess with a stick.

Which left him with Aya.

Why had the redhead continued to hold onto him when it had become obvious that Ken wouldn't – or couldn't – intervene? There had been genuine contentment and affection in the words and embrace, directed not just at Omi, whom Aya had held and petted previously, but at Ken and at Yohji as well. But it had been the firm touch down Ken's stomach, and the way Aya's hands had locked together, encircling the soccer player in an embrace, that had destroyed the younger man's ability to think. It felt so different from being with Kase, or Yuriko, that he hadn't known what to make of it. And still didn't.

Ken resisted the temptation to pull on his tiger claws and rip out his own throat. Hadn't he just gone to all the trouble of convincing himself that he was _not_ going to think thoughts like that about anybody, let alone a teammate? And, God help him, not about Aya who had all the social skills of a rabid dog? He'd have better luck with Omi. At least the delicate looking teen was more clear-cut in his brand of insanity. Aya was a mine field. Had been a mine field? It wasn't completely clear just what he was anymore.

Cautiously, Ken stole a glance at the object of his obsession. Aya was slumped in an armchair off to the side, looking a bit lost and out of the circle of camaraderie represented by the closeness of others. It was odd watching him. He no longer responded with that unbelievable, happy relief, and hadn't since that first time, but he had still changed. Aya's mouth was less hard, wasn't drawn down into that tense line.

But the sadness there wrenched at Ken's heart. He opened his mouth to say something – anything – but a hysterically evil cackle from Yohji forestalled him.

The image editing software loaded on the laptop was having a hard time doing anything with the blurry shot, but Omi nearly spontaneously combusted anyway. It took a long minute for Ken to figure out exactly what the two women and one man in the grainy picture were doing – long enough for the cycle of still shots to come around to the view from one of the Hot Body's private rooms several times. If he concentrated on the image, and ignored the views in between, it was like one of those do-it-yourself animation things where you were supposed to flip the pages of a little book to give the illusion of motion. Not that there was anything illusory about the tool that the one woman was pushing into the man while he did essentially the same thing to the other one. Ken swallowed hard and allowed that maybe it was a good thing that the security system wasn't state of the art. He didn't think he would survive watching that sequence in color. And especially not if it came with sound.

The same thought had to be running through Yohji's mind, because he left off bouncing on the couch and draped himself over Omi, crooning, "Hey... I thought this would be old hat for you. All that internet porn, ya know?"

Irritably, Omi shrugged him off and captured a screen shot, popping open another application window and running a search against local politicians until he found a match. Then he read off the details of the man's career and home life with sick fascination. Blushing, he added, "...that's it; I'm setting this thing up to stick to one view at a time. Like that corridor. I want to see people's faces, not their... you-know-whats."

The corridor camera was good choice. It seemed to be located between the front entrance and the unofficial rear one, and served to catch all the visitors to the brothel, either coming or going. Now that they had the pattern down of how the system cycled through the handful of cameras, they could let the computer follow it. It cut the time per tape to a minimum, and Omi calmed down. And better still, the miserable security system had recorded a date and time stamp in the corner. The combination allowed the kid to quickly discard most of the unmarked tapes as being far too old to be of immediate interest. That left them with only a half-dozen or so black plastic cartridges, the earliest of which bore a date of February 13th, just about the time of the auction of stolen art that Aya had attended. Omi muttered that he would go back through them later to see if he could find earlier contacts between their quarry and the whorehouse, but that it wasn't his primary goal just at the moment.

And it wasn't like they couldn't explore the blackmail potential later. Even if, as Yohji muttered sourly, the knowledge probably wasn't good for much besides fixing parking tickets.

Omi popped another tape into the vcr announcing "February 16th," as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He wore a cute look of mingled embarrassment and annoyance now, as though he felt that it was his personal fault that Aya's jailers had used inferior equipment. Yohji chuckled, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, every bit as absorbed as their hacker in the rapid gray flicker. For his part, Ken was bored and tired, and found himself watching the faint down turn of their redhead's mouth. It made him the only one to see the sudden surge of outright terror that flitted across the man's normally closed off features, and made Ken in turn shout, "Stop the tape. Now!"

Then he turned to look at the image on the screen.

There was Iida, the other owner of the whorehouse, frozen in mid-step with a taller man in an expensive suit at his side.

Aya shook his head mutely, savagely, fragments of his peculiar calm crashing around him. His unnatural pallor gave way to patches of hectic color high on his cheeks, drowning out even the yellow/purple/black of his fractured bone. He sucked in a shuddering breath, pupils dilating until there was only the barest sliver of purple, like the corona of the sun being all that remained during an eclipse. But unlike an eclipse, this fit didn't look like it would be over in a few minutes. A fine sheen of sweat started on the smooth, pale skin, and a tremor made the reflected light of the TV dance crazily. It was kind of like watching one of the frequent, low-level earthquakes making a priceless vase shiver on a shelf; Ken just knew that the crash was coming, that the redhead, like the vase, was headed for the precipice, but he couldn't seem to get his lungs and legs to work. Omi was the one who growled, blanked the screen of both TV and laptop, and launched himself at the slim man. Aya toppled backwards into his chair, arrested in mid-flight by the younger Hunter's tackle.

Yohji's ever-present sunglasses slid off the end of his nose and dropped to the floor. He caught one of Aya's arms, with Ken landing a moment later on the other one. Grappling with someone who could kill them all with little effort was probably the worst idea in the history of Weiss, which might be why they did it. None of them had forgotten the violence that had been part of the redhead's initial introduction to the group, and they had all seen him in action countless times since. Ken winced as he felt the stitches in the gunshot wound give in Aya's shoulder beneath him, but didn't dare let go. The only sound was the man's harsh, panting breath in his ear, not a single cry or curse having passed his lips. Then a tremor passed through the muscular body of their teammate as it melted from strained to limp. Aya had passed out.

"Holy shit." Yohji gasped. He was sporting a fresh scrape across his chin, and his still dyed black hair was a messy, snarled halo around his head. He looked more than a little frightened by the fact that seriously injured or not, the slim figure pinned by the three of them had nearly gotten free. It wasn't just that Aya was a skilled fighter; he had been moving in unthinking desperation. It made them all wonder just exactly what was going on in that head of his.


	7. Chapter 7: Words

**Reflections: Words **

_Chapter 7_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

Ken curled his body forward, knees drawn up to his chest, arms around his shins, forehead resting on top, his old soccer jersey stretch out of shape as he tented it over his cramped legs. If he twisted a little harder, maybe he could turn himself inside out and disappear totally. Choking, he resisted the temptation to seek comfort by rocking, even when he began to shake. Light footsteps that had been about to walk on by past his open bedroom door instead approached at a rush.

"Ken-kun!" The last couple of years had made the anxious voice that called his name as familiar as his own. Omi. It was ironic, but it always seemed to be the other boy who came by when he was falling apart. His tremors gave way to a miserable giggle that had its origin somewhere in the depth of his chest, and he couldn't seem to make it stop. The mattress shifted and dipped to one side as the slight blond scrambled aboard. Slim arms that were stronger than they looked wrapped around Ken's shoulders. The giggles gave way to a noisy, open-mouthed sob as the older boy launched himself at his friend, squeezing a strangled _meep! _of protest out of him. After a moment's hesitation, Omi's arms came up around him again in turn, and they began to rock together gently to murmured reassurances, nonsense words that meant everything, and nothing, but comforted. He wasn't alone; Omi wouldn't let him fall.

Although what he had was solid and compact, Ken wasn't physically that big of a person. But in comparison, the kid was just a shrimp. Maybe that was why they all tended to underestimate him? But the younger boy was no lightweight when it came to shouldering the traumas of his friends. He cared about all of them, even Aya when Aya was being a prick, because Omi was _nice_. He didn't just make a show of being empathetic and understanding, he really was. It made the athlete feel completely like the thoughtless klutz he often came across as. Worse, it made him feel like he was taking advantage of someone who was too kind to tell him to buzz off and get a life. What life? He was such a screw-up that he was letting Aya, who was too badly damaged to take care of himself, down too. The indestructible swordsman had had what could best be described as a panic attack, and had freaked out in front of all of them, ending up unconscious and hurt again.

And Yohji had said that Ken was the best at reaching this strange, new Aya. Stupid. Ken didn't deserve to be anywhere near the man.

"Ken-kun..." Omi groaned quietly, clearly torn over whether to try to make him see reason, or to simply let the matter go after listening to what bits of the stream of stuttering, teary babble made even half-way sense. His rational side won out, and he tried again. "Ken, you tend to see the world as black or white. As good, or as bad. Sometimes, it isn't that way, and neither is Aya-kun. I don't think he was ever really cold, or heartless at all. And as for how he's been acting now, it isn't so strange, really. Even before we knew his story – what it was that drove him to seek revenge – we all knew that he loved and hated passionately. Just look at how he's acted around his sister, and whenever he saw a Takatori. That's not a man made of ice. Whatever he went through this past month has just put a crack in that façade. You had nothing to do with it."

Sniffling, Ken drew back far enough that he could see the blond's serious, determined frown. It ought to have looked cute on such a childish face, but instead the stern expression aged him, giving him the benefit of the greater number of years that he had already invested as a Hunter. It also made it easier to believe what he was saying. Hesitantly, the brunet asked, "Do you really think that's all it is? That now the stuff that Aya used to hide is all hanging out and getting poked at and talked about by us?"

"I do." Omi replied firmly. He gave Ken's shoulder a final squeeze and shifted back away from the older youth. There was a faint blush staining his fair-skinned cheeks, and the front of his once-crisp white shirt was rumpled and grubby. At the guilty start Ken gave, he hastily added, "But that doesn't mean that I think we should take things at face value. Kritiker has quite a bit invested in us, which is why they do exams on a regular basis – i.e. physical _and_ mental. We should do the same. Now that we're not on the run all the time, I think it's time for Aya to answer some questions with more than a grunt, and an '_unknown_.' "

For the first time all day, Ken really felt like grinning. He scrubbed his sleeve across his swollen eyes and drippy nose, earning a shudder from the fastidious hacker, who fumbled for a box of tissues on the nightstand beside his bed. What Omi had said was true; Aya didn't evade questions, he flat-out stone-walled them. Maybe demanding some straight answers, preferably in words of more than one syllable was the right approach. No amount of searching on Omi's part had turned up an identity for the stranger that had put Aya into a panic. So they would have to extract the information from the one person who did have an idea what was going on, and that was the recently rescued swordsman, himself. The kid sat down cross-legged next to him, clear, dark blue eyes considering whether the crisis was over yet. Mellowed, Ken shook his head a bit, muttering, "Get a grip, Mom. I'm okay." Omi opened his mouth to protest, but the older boy didn't give him a chance. Ken ruffled the silky-straight blond mess and slid off the bed. "Come on, let's go see how he's doing."

Resigned, Omi rolled his eyes and followed. Some things never changed.

* * *

Resolve to get some answers made no difference when the target in question was still out cold. Indecisive, Ken hovered at the foot of Aya's bed, unable to decide what to do now that his original plan was thwarted. Omi drifted in to stand beside him, his shoulder brushing against the taller athlete's. Worried now, Ken glanced down at the team's pinch-hit medic, whispering, "He's out so much of the time. Is this normal?"

The boy gave him a pitying glance, but just patted his arm reassuringly instead of calling him an idiot. Ken was grateful for the consideration, because he sure felt like an idiot. "Normal? He's been better than normal. Think about what he looked like a few days ago when we took him from the hospital. Since then, he's managed to not only get to his feet, but to fight off two sets of attackers. It wouldn't be strange if he slept for a week to make up for it."

"Hmm. I guess so." the older assassin replied grudgingly. He moved up along side the mattress till he was even with Aya's waist, thinking hard. The slender redhead did look way better than he had when Ken had first seen him in the hospital bed, wrapped up in bandages. And he knew for a fact that Omi was right; the swordsman had managed to push his body to obey and perform, when he shouldn't have been able to stand up straight, let alone fight. Considering, he stole a side-ways glance at the blond youth waiting a few feet away. Omi's expression had softened, becoming melancholy and thoughtful, his sunny grin relaxed into a mild curve of pink lips that seemed more genuine, and less of a deliberate mask. Aya wasn't the only one who pushed himself to his limits, or who hid from others. How much of the younger assassin's understanding was perceptiveness, and how much was based on his own, darker experiences? The kid needed some down time, too. He had been forcing himself to help keep Yohji going, after the older man had collapsed during the first fire-fight. He babied Ken, and watched out for Aya. He took care of running interference with Manx, which had to be worse than all his other jobs put together. It was a miracle that it wasn't Omi tucked into that bed beneath the fluffy quilts.

The germ of an idea was taking root in his brain. In spite of himself, Ken felt a grin stretching his cheeks. It was too cute, and it would work, too. "Omi, climb up on Aya's far side, would you?" he commanded.

"Huh?"

"Just do it. You said it seemed to do him some good when he had me sleeping next to him, right? Like it let him relax, and really rest. So if we both stay with him, it should do twice as much good, right?"

"Uh, I don't think it works that way..." The kid was panicking, backing slowly toward the open door to the hall.

"Omi. Just do what I say. Or I swear I will _hurt_ you." Ken's voice dropped ominously, and the boy blanched, flicking a sharp glance between the unconscious swordsman and the very conscious soccer player. Omi was very fleet of foot, but he also knew that Ken would hunt him down, having the ability to carry a grudge for a long, long time. Weighed against Aya whom he might be able to escape before the man ever woke up, it was clear which would be the smarter course of action. Defeated, the younger member of Weiss put both hands on the footboard and boosted himself up and over, landing lightly on his knees on the mattress. After a moment's hesitation, he crawled carefully up and lay down between Aya and the wall, curled loosely onto his side so that he faced toward their teammate. Surprise widened his blue eyes when Ken slid in on the other side, taking up a mirroring position that left Aya stretched out on his back between them. He gulped when Ken reached a hand across and laced their fingers together, allowing their joined hands to rest on top of Aya's stomach. Suddenly very sure of the rightness of his course of action, Ken whispered, "We'll wait for him to wake up, together. Okay?" Surprised, Omi nodded slightly, then let his eyes drift shut.

* * *

Something snapped Ken into complete, wakeful alertness, and he wasn't entirely sure what. It took a lot of effort to keep his eyes closed, and his body relaxed, feigning sleep, when for all he knew it could be the next wave of murderous intruders that had tracked them to Villa Weiss, and was even now moving into position out in the corridor behind his back. His back that was very stupidly toward the open door.

Letting out a slow, relaxed breath, he concentrated on what his senses could tell him. There were only the usual, faint sounds of the house: the soft creak and shift of its log walls, the faint rattle and hum of the furnace through the heating ducts as the blower kicked on and a breath of warm, dry air ghosted over the back of Ken's neck. Added to that were the quiet, sleeping sounds of two teammates, both still deeply out of it. Nothing threatening to his ears, anyway. Beneath his imprisoning arm, he felt the slow rise and fall of Aya's living body, a body that radiated heat all down his side. Omi's fingers were still firmly in Ken's grasp: thin, light fingers with their distinctive callus on the side of the first knuckle of the forefinger from gripping his throwing darts, and on the pads of his middle two from grasping the steel string of his crossbow in preparation for cocking it. They were all warm, and trusting in Ken's.

"Might as well get up, kiddo. I know you're awake." A soft rustle turned away from the open door, and a footfall down the hall told Ken that the speaker was heading for the stairs.

Yohji.

Well, so much for sleeping in. Whatever time it was. Ken carefully disentangled his hand, sliding back and off the bed without fully sitting up. The move avoided the tell-tale dip and rise of the mattress, and got him away without waking either of his companions. It was too much work to search for his house slippers in the dim twilight of Aya's bedroom, so he simply padded out in stocking feet. Twilight. That mean that it was evening again, and he had slept away what little remained of the afternoon following the fiasco with the security tapes.

His blond teammate was waiting for him on the shabby couch in the darkened living room: elbows planted on his knees, hands dangling loosely between them, shoulders slumped. The brief, bright orange glow in the gray light told Ken that Yohji was smoking, as if his nose hadn't already warned him. Judging by the stale reek, the older man had been at it for hours.

"Were you looking for me?" Ken asked quietly. The orange dot brightened sharply as Yohji inhaled, then headed for the ashtray as the former detective stubbed it out.

"Nah. Just passing by and noticed you were awake."

"Huh." Ken waited, drawing on Siberian's patience, because he sure didn't have any of his own when it came to Yohji and his mind-games. Even when he was being serious, there was always some kind of an ulterior motive to the playboy's actions, just like how Aya went to the other extreme, and never paid any attention at all. Then it hit him. Extremes. Black and white. The memory of Omi's words sent a shiver straight down his spine, waking chilled gooseflesh in its course. He was making assumptions again, damn it. How much of his dislike of the older man was founded in reality, and how much was the result of his own stupid prejudices?

Now that he really paid attention, he could tell that there was something... off... about the eldest Hunter. Whatever it was that had overwhelmed the man back in the mansion's kitchen wasn't gone, just suppressed. Ken was getting that shivery vibe again, like when his instincts told him that there was an as-yet undiscovered guard lurking in the shadows when they went out on a mission. He wished fervently that Omi had been the one to wake up, and not him. The kid was way better at managing his team, at keeping them all focused on the job and not on the idiosyncrasies that would tear them apart.

His prolonged silence was wearing on Yohji. The older man fidgeted, took out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, and put it away without taking another smoke from it. Frustrated, he raked a hand back through the thick waves of his long hair, and swore under his breath. "Crap. Look, I'm sorry I fucked up, okay? I didn't mean the stuff I said about you, or about Omittchi. Sometimes, I just open my mouth, and stuff comes out. I didn't mean for you to take it wrong... it just gets my goat to see you and the kid making a fuss over that asshole."

"Uh, s- sure..." Ken stammered. Whatever he had been expecting, a blanket apology wasn't it. And especially not one that sounded sincere. Yohji didn't do sincere. Pissed off, sarcastic, irresponsible ... yes. But hurt and something less definable, just like now, didn't seem right at all. And it puzzled him that Yohji hadn't included Aya in the plus column, but rather was directing his grievances at the injured man. Surely, he didn't blame Aya for getting hurt? But Ken was taking too long, and before he could pursue any of that, Yohji got an obstinate set to his jaw and the time for confidences was over.

The tall man rocketed out of the couch, stalking angrily over to the sliding glass doors that looked out onto the balcony, and the ferocious beauty of the mountain vista beyond. Ken felt a momentary pang of jealousy. Yohji's loose-limbed grace was nothing like Aya's tightly controlled movements, but both men still had a kind of untamed wildness to them, something that the younger man definitely lacked. He could trip over his own feet just crossing the room, but he had never seen Yohji trip and fall except when he was dead drunk, and even then it wasn't the kind of spill that would end up with a split lip or a sprained ankle. Now, vibrating with tension and bad temper, Yohji was feral discontent made human. It was like watching the thrashing tail of a jungle cat.

"So... what are we going to do about Aya?" Yohji asked abruptly, gone coldly professional. He half-turned, leaning his long body up against the door frame. Against the unrelieved black of his sleeveless tee-shirt, the skin of his face, and arms, and a narrow slice of exposed belly were ghostly pale, clearly visible while the rest of him faded into the gloom. Ken felt a brief rush of tension when all of the smoldering anger in the hooded dark eyes fixed on him, and he understood very well how a deer felt in the cross-hairs of a rifle. Then the blond glanced out the windows and casually lit a cigarette after all. The lighter's flare illuminated the hard planes of Yohji's face, turning him into a stranger. His reflection lay across the window glass, thin and dark as a wraith, its accusing glare still fixed on the younger man.

_Do about Aya...?_ Addled by the resentment pouring off his companion, the first thing that came to mind was the horrible old joke about the six hundred pound gorilla: _...anything Aya wants._ Ken wasn't crazy. There was no way he was going to try to badger a katana-wielding, short-fused assassin into doing anything.

Impatience made Yohji push off from the wood and metal supporting his back, and brought him pacing back across the room to stop directly in front of Ken, well inside his personal space. It was a move calculated to intimidate, and shorter brunet had to admit it worked. Yohji might be on the skinny side – there wasn't an ounce of fat to soften the whipcord lines of his spare frame – but he more than made up for it by exuding bass-ass attitude. Theoretically, Ken could take him, but he knew from past observation that the other man was a dirty fighter close-in. If he won, it would cost, and big time. Instinct might be telling him to attack now, without warning, but common sense said it would be a dumb move. The whisper of _off..._ decided him, and borrowing instead from Omi's play book, the younger Hunter took a step back.

"We," he said with forced calm, "are going to talk to Aya. We're not on the run anymore, and it's past time to hear his side of what happened while he was missing."

Mercurial, the tension drained out of Yohji, leaving behind tired and anxious where there had been anger. He finger-combed a heavy fall of hair back from his forehead, reluctantly answering. "Yeah. You're right. We need to hear his side... but, you know, I kinda think I don't want to know what happened to him."

What Ken read from him strongest of all was guilt.

* * *

"Sit here, Aya-kun. I'll get you something to eat." The up-beat light alto was unmistakably Omi's and brought Ken back into the kitchen in time to see the irrepressible boy propelling his teammate into a chair at the long side of the table. The kid's laptop clattered onto the scarred wood opposite. It was nearly midnight, and they were finally up and about.

Yohji made an exasperated noise, fishing for a new cigarette but leaving it unlit at Omi's glare. He dropped into the chair at the foot of the table, leaving Ken no choice but the head. The kitchen was okay – nowhere near as nice as what they had back home, above the Koneko – but serviceable in an old-fashioned way. Everything was done in dark, honey-gold wood, and was probably original to the time of the European businessman who had built the Swiss-chalet-styled cabin in the very Japanese mountains. But even though it was Western, and terribly out of place, Villa Weiss was welcoming whereas the mansion that they had stayed at only a couple of nights earlier had only been harshly modern and pretentious.

It had been Omi's idea for them to convene in the kitchen, setting the four of them around the plain table. It avoided the appearance of a panel sitting in judgement against a lone defendant. Not that Aya was likely to be intimidated, but he was smart enough to see the inequality of three against one, and the last thing they needed was to put him on his guard. The kid bustled around, parking a plate of rice balls in front of them, pausing, and then nudging the onigiri closer to the redhead. Aya's gaze flickered up and down, checking out the plate of food and its chef, while a tiny smile of thanks touched his lips. Omi's grin brightened in response before he turned away to fetch cups of tea for the older assassin and himself.

Ken had the distinct feeling that Aya was aware that Omi was trying to manipulate him, and didn't care.

The blond hacker finally quit running back and forth and took the chair opposite the redhead, clunking his mug against the corner of his laptop. Curious, Ken wondered what he was up to. It was unclear whether Omi intended to act as interrogator, or if he was just taking advantage of the extra elbow room for his computer. Aya's soft, dusk gaze was unreadable, and open and guileless though the expression might be on the youngest of their members, it was no more revealing. It could get interesting pitting the two smartest Weiss against each other.

Calm, Aya took a sip of his tea, wrapping slimly elegant white fingers around the big ceramic cup. He seemed to be waiting for the teen across the table to make the first move. Omi inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, gifting him with a rueful smile that was transparently honest. "Ne, Aya-kun... you know I have to ask you about the pictures we were looking at? Who was the foreign man walking with Iida-san?"

Aya shrugged; the barest lift of his good shoulder, more of a _don't know, not interested_ than anything else. His low voice was flat. "There's nothing I can tell you. I don't know his name." He picked up one of the rice balls and took a neat bite out of it, but his hand was trembling ever so slightly.

The kid had been hunched over his laptop, fingers poised to begin typing, but now straightened, leaning back in his chair. There was no point in trying to force the older man to answer that question. They could work up to the identity of the stranger; time to change tactics. "Okay. So start with when you checked out of the hotel, after the auction."

There was a pause that sank into annoyed silence.

The redhead had almost reverted to his normal, taciturn behavior, and it just wasn't acceptable. Omi heaved a deep sigh, and tried again, turning on every bit of his considerable charm. "Aya-kun, please? We were so worried about you... What happened? Please tell us." Wheedling, the boy leaned across the table, the tips of his outstretched fingers just grazing the backs of Aya's knuckles where they showed white and tense around his mug.

None of them could resist when the kid used wide, Pacific Ocean blue eyes as if he were a puppy dog begging for a loving home, treats, and walkies all at once. Even when he had learned that Omi was a member of the hated Takatori by blood if not by upbringing, the unsociable older assassin still caved in the same as anyone else and forgave. It was a dirty trick, and Omi was honest enough to use it only when he really, really wanted something, when it was important for the well-being of the whole team. Just at the moment, he wanted answers, and recognizing that determination, Aya could only give in with poor grace, lips thinning down unhappily.

"I went back to the apartment Kritiker had provided me with." The low voice was monotonous. Nodding, fingers flying over the keys, Omi encouraged him to continue. Short, staccato sentences signaling his reluctance, Aya went on. "I finished my report, my impressions of the buyers of the stolen art. I encrypted it, and emailed it to Kritiker. I spent the next couple of days reestablishing my cover persona in the neighborhood-- "

Startled, Ken gave an involuntary _mmph?!_ At the apartment? There had been no sign that he had even made it to the place. And what was the business about Aya 'reestablishing' himself? It didn't help that their computer expert continued to nod, brightly offering, "Yep. Fujita Masahiro." as if the name would explain everything. As far as the soccer player was concerned, it didn't explain a damn thing. What made it worse was Yohji snapping his fingers and leaning forward in his seat as if everything had suddenly come clear.

"Of course. Your writer guy."

Oddly enough, it was Aya who took pity on the scowling athlete and offered an explanation. "Fujimiya Ran is dead." he said shortly. "Fujita Masahiro is the part I sometimes play when I need a cover that has some real presence to him, and who also has a documented history. Fujita is a writer, and when he isn't off chasing some article or story, he lives at the apartment Kritiker provides."

Put that way, it made sense. Aya could hardly go around as himself, not when his old life was gone and buried. The redhead was silent for a long moment, visibly sorting and ordering his thoughts. Irritably folding his arms across his chest, he added, "This was all according to Birman's instructions." as if that was all the explanation that was necessary. Yohji opened his mouth to say something, annoyance pulling him out of his show of lazy good humor, then jerking as Omi kicked his shin beneath the cover of the table. Safe at the far end of the table, Ken smirked and stuck out his tongue. The kid shot him a warning glare that said clearly, _Don't push your luck!_

Fortunately, Aya only blew out an annoyed breath over their fooling around. He had apparently decided to soldier on and get the inquisition over with. "On the third day-- " Ken glanced at Omi, who mouthed silently _the 18th_, the same day that the American, Benson, was supposed to have left for the States. He nodded his understanding. "—Birman called to tell me to expect a courier with an invitation for the Press Club luncheon coming up. She said that she would be by the following day to drop off the file for the mission-- "

"What!?" exclaimed Yohji, annoyance at the rest of Weiss forgotten in favor of their handler. "Birman didn't say anything about another mission." The former PI's point was apt: if Aya had had another assignment that they weren't aware of, then there was a whole pool of potential suspects and possible sources of clues that they had overlooked. Thanks to the handler, and her passion for secrecy, it was possible that they had been looking in the wrong place.

Aya's head jerked up sharply. His pallid face twisted, and he snapped with savage intensity, "Because it had nothing to do with anything! Yes, I knew the gist of what it was going to be about, but I never even saw the files on the target."

Ken watched in sick fascination as a single bead of sweat formed in the hairline at Aya's temple, broke free, and skated down the curve of his cheek. Thankfully, Yohji saw it too, and opted to give Aya a disingenuous grin, carelessly asking, "So, what kind of a mission did Birman have in mind for Fujita-san? Investigating the rubber chicken at the banquet?" It would have been entirely Aya-like if the swordsman had simply glared and refused to answer, but instead he grudgingly offered, "There's a foreign reporter who's suspected of leaking sensitive government documents. Kritiker had a tip that he was going to meet up with his contact during the luncheon. I was to see if I could identify who he met with. There was to be no contact involved." The way his mouth closed into a tight line communicated very definitely that he had said all he would on the topic.

"Hmm." The taller blond had to be satisfied with that. And, to be honest, a simple surveillance assignment shouldn't have been dangerous. 'No contact' in their profession meant that Kritiker was only watching and gathering information; should the leak need to be stopped, that would be an assignment for some other day. Although, it might still fall to Aya and the rest of Weiss if it was an order for termination that came down. Kritiker was woefully short of teams that did what they did. Yohji shrugged, snagging a rice ball from the plate as he rose to rummage in the refrigerator for something to drink. The tight wound spring that was their partner relaxed imperceptibly when the line of questioning was dropped. Ken had a suspicion that Omi hadn't really let it go, that he was planning on tackling Birman over the previously unmentioned assignment, and he was glad he wasn't the one who would be in the woman's shoes when the kid pinned her down. It was going to _hurt._

To Ken's surprise, Yohji brought not one, but four beers back to the table and passed them out. Without pausing his rapid typing, the kid shuddered delicately. If he had to drink, Omi preferred the sweeter mixed drinks, especially concoctions that involved fruit or ice cream. Shrugging, Ken decided to go along with it and twisted the top off of his bottle. They were all perfectly well aware that Aya rarely drank, but maybe just this once he would follow suit, and it would serve to take some of the edge off of his defensiveness. Maybe it would bring back the pleasant personality that had possessed him since he had reawakened, and maybe it would blunt the silent anguish that lurked at the back of his violet eyes. One could hope.

"Omi...? How long has it been since the pain meds you gave me?" asked Aya quietly. The flying digits faltered, slowed, and came to rest on the table's surface as their owner considered.

"Um, a little over twelve hours. And the last batch was only the Tylenol with Codeine. It should be out of your system by now." The boy was as courteous as ever, but it was obvious that he was thinking that a certain someone should have asked the question before passing around the alcohol in the first place. Yohji's wide mouth quirked up in amusement, spoiling the contrite effect he was shooting for as he kowtowed from his chair.

"Maa, Omittchi. Aya's an adult; you don't need to mother him."

The kid's swift scowl was fierce as he snapped, "He's an adult who's been hurt pretty bad, and may not be completely aware of what's going on around him. You can't expect _anybody_ who's been spending half his time unconscious to keep track of stuff like that. _That's_ why I do it."

The retort took Yohji aback. Then he began to chuckle. The object of the conversation gave a resigned sigh and twisted off the cap on his bottle of beer, drawing the attention of both blonds to himself. Aya growled, "Enough. I appreciate the concern, but I'm not fragile."

For a long minute, all three of them gaped at the redhead. Aya appreciated them? Would wonders never cease? Ken felt a dislocating moment of déjà vu. Wasn't this exactly the sort of thing that had had him convinced that Aya wasn't Aya?

For his part, the center of attention ignored the stares he was getting. Aya crooked one long forefinger around the neck of the brown bottle, allowing it to rest against the backs of his other knuckles as he took a long pull of beer. Entranced that even such little gestures were unintentionally graceful, Ken's eyes followed the movement of the man's Adam's apple, just visible above the high collar of his sweater as he swallowed. Suddenly embarrassed, the soccer player looked away and caught a glimpse of the rapt expression on Omi's face before the boy could hide it.

A weird warmth in his heart gave Ken pause, and he had to smother a grin behind his beer. It was looking as if Omi had developed a crush on their no longer quite-so-aloof swordsman. Given that handsome man was oblivious to ninety-nine percent of the world's population, Ken didn't rate his inexperienced partner's chances very high. Unless of course Omi could provoke him into screaming 'Die, Takatori!' and rushing at him with his sword. Unfortunately, that didn't seem like the kind of attention that would satisfy the teenager's newly awakened fascination with the red headed prick.

Except that Omi's interest had only surfaced _after_ Aya had transformed into this new and improved, more human model. The warmth that had briefly suffused him gave way to a fierce frown that drew Ken's brows together, creating a deep crease that almost immediately began to ache from the tension. It wasn't only jealousy, although there was no doubt he was possessive of their compatriot; it was more complicated than that, being made up worry for the team as a whole, and a conflicting desire to protect the blond youth from harm as well. Safely hidden below the surface of the table, his hands abruptly clenched until the tendons in his wrists vibrated from the strain.

Yohji suddenly looked up, alerted by a sixth sense of his own. His gaze shuttled rapidly between the other Weiss, managing to miss the momentary entrancement that had gripped the kid, but still sensitive to the emotional currents. As both a detective and an assassin, he was sharply observant; it was only a matter of time before whatever was going on fully involved all four of them. Ken was definitely _not_ looking forward to it. The wire man's interaction with Aya usually consisted of teasing games designed to crack the redhead's silence. Yohji swore, drank, womanized, showed up late for work, smirked, and insulted... until Aya's infamous temper exploded. Eternally lazy, Yohji then fought back just hard enough to prevent Aya from using him to wipe the floor, taking immense pleasure in pushing the other man's buttons.

The problem was, Ken just didn't know how this version of Aya would react.

Kitty-corner to both Siberian and Balinese, Omi caught the fierce defensiveness from one side, and the single-minded hunter's concentration from the other. Hastily, he broke the increasingly ominous silence by coughing and bouncing up from his chair to grab bowls and spoons. "Hey, guess what?" he chattered breezily, "We left ice cream in the freezer last time we were up. I've got red bean, New York style vanilla, and uh, tangerine. Who wants what flavor?"

A slow smile quirked the older blond's lips, but failed to reach the hot summer green of his eyes as he remained focused on Ken opposite him. Drawling with barbed good humor, he replied "Hmm, tough question, Omittchi. Which do you suppose goes best with beer?"

Embarrassed, the kid flushed and tried to keep himself from fiddling with the handful of spoons. It was a bit cruel of Yohji to draw attention to the fact that Omi hadn't even tasted the unopened bottle that still sat in front of him.

"Kudoh. Stop it." Aya's low voice slid across the developing confrontation like his sword's blade. His mouth tightened unhappily. "Omi, put away the ice cream. You wanted me to tell you what transpired during the period that I was missing. Very well. But only on the condition that all of you sit down, and behave. Quarreling among ourselves is pointless. None of us is the enemy here."

Ken found himself exchanging an uneasy moment of shared consideration with the blond at the far end of the table. Shifting as though the straight-backed wooden chair was suddenly made of poison ivy, or worse, Yohji gave a reluctant nod. It was rare for him to be awkward or unsure of himself, but it did happen. Sympathy put out the last hot embers of his resentment and anger, and Ken nodded as well. Their hacker had already returned the bowls to the counter and slid back into his seat as if he had been reprimanded by a teacher at school.

Faced with their subdued attention, Aya was reluctant to begin. He took and deep breath, and expelled it uncharacteristically noisily, then ran a shaky hand back over the short clipped strands of his hair, succeeding in getting some of the fine threads to stand on end. "I..." he said, faltering to a stop almost immediately. Swallowing hard, he steeled himself and plunged into his report. "I had been visiting a coffee house, asking questions about changes in the neighborhood, mentioning that I was back from a long trip, and that that was why things struck me as different. It wasn't so far from the truth, except that the journey had only been as far as the Koneko. I left the coffee house, intending to go home and change, as it was getting on toward dusk, and I was planning to visit a jazz bar that was a hang-out for the more artistic up-and-comers of the area. I was hurrying, and the shortest route to the apartment led down an alley. So, of course a man accosted me. I had gone that way often, and now here was an idiot whom I dared not teach a lesson to, for fear of ruining my cover. It was extremely annoying." A short, bitter smile flashed across his pale face as Aya spun the empty beer bottle across the darker rings of condensation it had left on the left on the table. Softly, he stated, "That was the first of two critical mistakes that I made. I stupidly assumed that the situation was a simple mugging." The bottle shone wetly as he caught it easily with his off hand. Mesmerized, he stared at the sweating glass until Omi cleared his throat apologetically.

"You said 'two mistakes,' Aya-kun. What was the other one?"

Ken opened his mouth, a sudden wrench in his gut telling him that he did _not_ want to hear the answer to this question. More than anything, he wanted to tell Omi to take it back, to pretend that the words had never been spoken, but it was already too late. Aya's shadowed eyes flicked up, meeting and holding the boy's gaze. "My second error lay in that I let them take me alive."

The anguished statement froze the blood in Ken's veins. It was one of the very real risks of belonging to Kritiker; an operative could not afford to be captured, and yet their teammate had. The swordsman shifted restlessly under their horrified, combined regard, reaching up to absently dig his thumb hard into his torn shoulder, letting the pain counter the struggle briefly visible until his face was again carefully neutral. Omi winced noticeably, unable to speak, and it was as if Ken again felt Aya's stitches popping as they wrestled with the desperately silent assassin over the security tapes from the whorehouse.

"I... was paying attention to the man who had approached me. He was dressed like any other vagrant... dirty, ragged, but armed with a knife. I sidestepped his first lunge, knocking him with my laptop's bag, making it look clumsy, like an accident. The move put me close to a van parked behind a restaurant. It had been there the previous day, seemed to belong to that business, and so I thought nothing of it; it was marked with the logo of Hummingbird Catering... Then the side and rear doors opened, and it was no longer myself against one drunk, but four well-trained professionals." Aya paused when Omi held up one hand peremptorily.

"Got it. A truck belonging to Hummingbird was reported stolen in the right area." He continued to scan rapidly down the scrolling computer screen, making a disgusted noise as he neared the bottom. "Crap. Would you believe I eliminated the theft because the vehicle was recovered less than twenty-four hours later, and a disgruntled employee was implicated?"

The former PI was the one to shrug it off, saying, "Let it go, kiddo. If Aya says they were pros, you probably wouldn't have gotten much from it anyhow. You gotta remember, the trail was cold by the time Birman realized that the Ice Prince was missing, and even colder by the time she fessed up." Aya gave a brief, jerky nod of agreement.

"They knew what they were doing, Omi. I believe it was their intent that I vanish without a trace. Initially, I entertained some hope of preserving Fujita's identity, but it quickly became apparent that there was no chance of success if I continued to fight as him. The switch in styles allowed me to take my assailants by surprise, and I believe that I... killed... the one who first accosted me." His voice faded, sounding nauseous in a way that forcibly reminded Ken of his own early days with Weiss, before the slender, red haired assassin had been recruited to balance out their group. Back then, he had emptied his stomach every time he had come down off the berserker high that rage and hurt sent him to, only to discover that his hands had destroyed yet another life. Ken didn't know whether to be glad, or revolted that his raging no longer got such a strong response from him. On the one hand, it was a relief to not hurl every time the guilt wracked him, but on the other, he dreaded the day when he no longer felt anything.

Aya had given up the pretense of addressing his teammates, his dulled voice likewise bleeding away its burden of emotion, until he sounded like a machine. "The odds were now three to one. While I was certain that I could defeat them one on one, it was obvious that I was not going to be given that chance; they were accustomed to working together as a unit. My only hope lay in escape. I made the decision to go for the small gap left by the dead man, passing between the ones armed with tonfa and nunchaku. I used the laptop as a shield against the tonfa man, which had the side bonus of destroying the machine so that if it were captured, there would be no chance of the encryption on Kritiker's files being broken. Unfortunately, while I was able to dodge the nunchaku, the tonfa were another matter. He had me disarmed in seconds."

Ken could well imagine how, having spent enough training time with the wooden batons to respect what they could do in the hands of a master. The hand grip fitted perpendicularly to the shaft made it possible to spin the length of hardwood, gaining enough momentum to deal a punishing blow that could shatter more than the fingers and wrist that the fight had cost Aya. And it was a good choice against a sword too, in that the baton could be snapped into line with its wielder's forearm to block an incoming strike, or reversed so that the handle acted as a hook to snatch the weapon from an opponent's hand. Oh, yeah... The presence of tonfa went a long way toward explaining how Aya had come to get the crap beaten out of him.

"...but, ultimately, I was not able to flee. The fourth member of my attackers proved to be armed with a gun, and he was not hesitant concerning its use. I made it less than half-way down the alley before he had shot me three times. This-- " The hard ball of his thumb again dug into the tormented muscle, dragging a suppressed tremor from him. "Just as tonfa and nunchaku are bludgeoning weapons well suited to subduing an opponent, this was not intended to kill; they wanted me alive."

"Why, Aya?" Utterly serious, Yohji leaned across the table, taking the beer bottle from the younger man's white-knuckled grip and setting it gently aside. He ran one of his own, sensitive long fingers down the swordsman's injured wrist, the light touch as compelling as a blow to judge by the way Aya had to stifle a jerk away.

"I don't know. The first couple of days were the worst. I was in a lot of pain, and they didn't feed me, or let me have any water. T- that man, the one on the tape, all he asked me was who I was... I kept telling him I was Futjita Masahiro, but it was the wrong answer... When I quit waking up, they left me alone." he whispered, shaking with the effort to not wrench Yohji's hand away. The blond still read the reaction for what it was, and withdrew his hand slowly, avoiding any quick movements that might spook Aya.

Omi paused his rapid-fire typing and got up to fetch a glass of water for injured man, the hard tilt to his set mouth just daring the irresponsible playboy to make a crack about his mothering instincts. Yohji hardly noticed what he was up to, leaning back with one arm hooked carelessly over the wooden chair's back and his entire focus on the silent redhead.

When he wasn't annoyed by the other blond, Omi enjoyed teasing him about being a big kitty cat, on the prowl for a handout. Or a warm lap, as the case might be. Just then, though, his singular, feline hunting attention was fixed entirely on Aya, and his tone was sharp as he rapped out, "Where were you kept?"

Startled, the slender redhead replied automatically, speaking as though he was giving a report on a mission. "Underground, judging by the constant temperature and the high level of humidity. End of a hallway with at least four other doors on it. Room that had been used as a laundry, maybe. There was a utility sink, and bits of lint around a floor drain."

"And?"

"It was a western-styled building, possibly from the 1950's, to judge by the basement itself. A traditional house would not have had one. Given the concrete block walls, and the amount of space, I would guess a business."

Grimacing, Omi turned his computer slightly so that Ken could also see the screen. There, in a brief newspaper article was a description of the closed down brothel; Aya was dead on.

Yohji raised a hand, halting any questions or comments from the rest of the group. He was thinking hard. "Did they ask you any questions about Kritiker?" he demanded at last.

"No. Or, to be more precise, not when I was conscious." Warily, Aya answered the question, and fixed narrowed violet eyes solely on the investigator. He was well aware that Omi was more than his match if it came to ferreting out information on the internet. There wasn't a database in existence that the kid could crack, given a little time. Similarly, he had a gift for putting the machines to work to help him. The detective, on the other hand was something a bit different. For him, it always smacked of serendipity. Yohji didn't surf the 'net, he surfed people, reading them with an uncanny accuracy that let him turn a situation to his advantage.

Yohji tilted the chair back onto two legs, steadying himself with one hand on the edge of the table. His tight black tee was riding up a bit, exposing the ripples of his taut stomach as he rocked. The next question was casual, almost indifferent. "So, how long do you think you were out?"

"Four days." Aya said definitely. Some of the strain eased from his tensed frame, and he leaned back a little in his seat.

"Hm?" One of Yohji's tawny brows quirked up, politely inquiring.

White fingers traced Aya's jaw and chin, a ghostly caress. "Beard." answered the other man simply. At the perplexed looks that the others leveled at him, he elaborated, "I hadn't shaved in four days."

Oh. That made sense. Of the three senior members of the group, Ken knew that Aya rarely had to shave. Yohji would probably have a tidy goatee if he let himself go, while the soccer player knew that the best he could manage was sort of a wispy, Chinese scholar look that was completely at odds with his personality, aside from being damned silly in general. Aya though, would have his fine, alabaster skin forever, unless God took a hand.

Yohji though, was the one who had to argue, unable to resist smirking and prodding at his prey. "Hey, how do you know that they didn't send someone in to shave you while you were out?"

"Because, you idiot, why would they bother to shave me when they left me lying in a puddle of my own filth?" The swift retort was more in keeping with the personality that they were used to, except that the old Aya would have done it with a frigid, narrow-eyed glare. It sounded more horrible, stated with Aya's precise, educated diction, when the words shook. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house anyway, between the pilot lights on the stove, and the waste heat from the quietly humming refrigerator. Ken fiddled with the hem of the soccer jersey he had on over top of a turtleneck, debating on whether he should peel it off or not. In contrast, Aya looked as if he wished that the bulky dark blue sweater that he had on was bigger and heavier. It already hung down past his knuckles, with loose folds bunched together around his hips, but the slim man kept tugging it closer.

"Aya...?" Intimate and soft, the older blond said the redhead's name as he gently lowered his chair to sit four-square on the floor. His lazy gaze had gone serious and focused on their partner as if he was the most important thing in the entire world. "Aya, you can tell us what they did to you. We can help you to heal."

Startled, the injured man reared back, and a degree of anger kindled in the narrowed twilight eyes. Aya snarled, "Fuck off, Kudoh. I wasn't raped."

The words were like a slap. Ken felt himself recoil, and out of the corner of his eye saw Omi likewise pale and start back. Yohji held his ground, his generous mouth turning down in dismay. Sympathy flooded his easy-going features, and he said with uncharacteristic gentleness, "Aya, you don't have to act as if it was nothing. You're not alone-- "

The chair toppled to the floor with a crash as Aya surged to his feet. Unwittingly, the furious redhead was echoing his teammates' earlier conversation as he shouted, "Not everything is about sex! Can't you get that through your head!?"

Yohji prepared to argue the point, just as he had argued Benson's motivations with the rest of them while Aya lay unconscious at the first safe house a few days earlier. Ken blinked. Had it really only been a couple of days? The tight, bitter stubbornness in the set of the blond's shoulders telegraphed his intention to keep digging at the weakness he sensed in their partner, as if it were a pocket of infection that needed to be lanced. As if he were trying to perform the same operation on himself? Ken's attention wavered between the two men. Where had that sudden insight come from, he wondered. Something along the same lines must have occurred to Omi, because the younger assassin was bouncing in Yohji's face, and then grabbing him by the wrist and towing him bodily out of the kitchen. Once the two blonds were out of sight, Aya sighed and righted his chair. He slumped into it, too exhausted to fight to stay on his feet.

"Aya...?" Hesitantly, Ken took a step toward him. The redhead addressed him without raising his head.

"Yohji is wrong. I wasn't sexually abused." He paused, then continued in a bare whisper, "There are worse things than rape."

There was no help for it; Ken took another step, and another, until he could rest a hand lightly on the rounded curve of the man's shoulder. His voice was just as quiet as he asked, "What, Aya? What's worse?"

"Being left a- alone." A tiny hitch in the word, and it cut like a knife. That was all it took for Ken to reach for the person he had fought beside, and lived with, and never given much thought to before. He knew it was the right decision when a shudder ran through the sweater clad back as the soccer player's light touch descended.

Ken held himself perfectly still, not daring to presume any farther, even though he desperately wanted to envelop the wounded man in a hug. The sensation gave him pause. Wonderingly, Ken considered. Just when had he made the transition from thinking of Aya as hostile and unapproachable, to wanting to comfort? When had the stubborn man gone from being a compatriot, a co-worker, to being someone that he cared about? Why did it matter that the trembling in the tense shoulder beneath his hand increased, and that Aya was biting his lower lip in his struggle to maintain control? Without conscious volition, Ken shifted a final half-step closer and gave in to the temptation to hold and comfort.

A muffled curse met his efforts as the redhead buried his face into Ken's stomach, but the hands that fisted into the loose fabric of his sports jersey were irresistible. With Aya clutching the fabric over either hip, there was no way that the younger man was going to leave, even if he had been inclined to.

"Ken, how is..." The question died away as soon as Omi caught sight of his friends. Irresolute, the boy stopped in the doorway. Before he could retreat, Ken jerked his chin imperiously, willing Omi to understand and to come closer. Surprise shot the younger Weiss' brows into his hairline, but he obeyed the summons, joining the pair of them at the kitchen table. The soccer player flicked his gaze downward, praying that the silent command would make sense, relying on the instinctive way that he and the kid had always managed to work together. Still on the verge of spooking, Omi gave a hesitant nod in reply, and slid his arms around Aya from behind.

The brunet breathed out a sigh of relief and briefly closed his eyes. That had been harder than signaling the next play during a game had ever been, but at least their resident genius had been smart enough to figure out what it was that he wanted done. And, better still, it seemed to be working.

The tensely miserable grasp in the fabric of Ken's shirt was easing as Omi rubbed his cheek over the messy strands of dark crimson hair. Aya relaxed back against the kid's chest, no longer quite so determined to lock out the world by hiding his red-splotched face against Ken, although his eyes remained tightly closed. The athlete made an abortive attempt to free himself, stopping when Omi gave him a tiny but unmistakable shake of the head, followed by a glare that would have done the master, Fujimiya Aya, proud. The boy spoke softly, directly into the ear that he appeared to be nuzzling, "Aya-kun... let's go to bed."

Ken couldn't help himself; he gave a choked, sputtering gasp. Not only had sweet little Omi just said what he thought he had said, but that was definitely 'nuzzling.' Blue eyes were challenging him to say word one, and to be honest, the athlete wasn't sure what he _would_ say, so he held his peace, even when the petit blond pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of the red hair. It was inconceivable that Omi was trying to take advantage of their friend; scrupulously fair and honest, the kid would never condone it. Which meant that he had to be trying to distract the older man for some reason, and Ken was just typically clueless about it. He would just have to play along.

"Please, Aya-kun? Can we go?"

The man gave a single, jerky nod of ascent, and climbed awkwardly to his feet, making him the one to let go of Ken, rather than the other way around. It was plain that the slender Hunter was nearly out on his feet as he allowed Omi to steer him toward the door and the stairs beyond. "Coming, Ken-kun?" The request was anxious; Omi was nowhere near as confident as he was letting on.

Ken cleared his throat diffidently. "Um, in a minute. I promise. I just want to clear away a couple of things, okay?"

Things named Kudoh Yohji.

Innocent blue eyes caught his, widening until they threatened to spill worried tears. Ken added quietly, "I promise." Aya had let go of his shirt-front, and went willingly enough when the brunet made shooing motions at them.

* * *

"So, the kid got our favorite redheaded asshole off to bed?" The mild inquiry came from the shadows of the living room. After the comparative brightness of the kitchen, it took Ken some effort to spot the older Hunter, slouched in a battered comfy chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Yeah." the brunet answered noncommittally. Ken didn't really want to try to explain just what the snuggling had been. Although he was sure it wasn't sex, like Yohji would undoubtedly suggest. Or, he was mostly sure that it wasn't. He was still having a hard time dealing with the littlest of their company saying that he had liked being petted by Aya. But right now was not the time to think about _that_, and Ken firmly pushed the whole thing out of his head. "Uh, Yohji. There's something I want to ask you-- "

"Hn. So it's finally time for that father-son chat? You sure you're ready for it, kiddo? It can be a lot of fun if it's done right-- "

"Yohji! Why _is_ everything about sex with you?!" exploded Ken. He was just winding up for a good rant when the former detective's snickers caught him by surprise. "What?" he demanded suspiciously, "Just what are you up to?"

Still chuckling, the older man dragged himself upright in his chair. "I know you'd never get up the guts to put the moves on our good buddy."

Ken opened his mouth, intent on protesting that he did so have the courage, then stopped dead. This was getting to be one of those verbal traps that he always seemed to fall prey to. If he complained that, no, he wouldn't dream of approaching Aya, he would either be perceived as a coward, or, alternatively, dense as a post for not noticing just how gorgeous their teammate was. Any other ideas that came to mind were even worse. His only hope was to ask his question, and to then escape. Grabbing his courage with both hands, he demanded, "Hey, quit trying to change the subject, would you? I just want to know, how did they find Aya, anyway? "I mean, the Hot Body. How did the cops know to go there?"

"They had a tip."

"Anonymous, right?"

"Shit. Yeah, of course it was an anonymous tip. Now, ask me how I know."

Bewildered, Ken nodded. "Ooo-kay... So how do you know?"

The lanky blond held up his cell phone, smirking as the shorter assassin's confusion grew. "When I returned the car, just before the party at the loft apartment, ya know? I put in a call to this guy I used to know... Not Kritiker, not the internet, just a good, old-fashioned informant. Well, when I checked our voicemail, to see if there was anything new from your girlfriend Honey, there was a message from _him. _He says that the tip was a little... 'odd,' 'cause it wasn't just about the missing granddaughter." In one of his sudden reversals of mood, Yohji was abruptly serious again, adding, "Omittchi has been saying since the beginning that there was a reason that the police were interested in our friendly kenkaku, why information on this case was so hard to come by. Now, what do _you_ think?"

The problem was that he didn't know what to think. A horrible suspicion that had begun niggling at him was fast settling into a strong certainty. Ken took a deep breath and plunged in. "Okay, I'll bite. How much do you want to bet that Aya was supposed to get found? I'll bet that the cops, _and_ theguys who had him were counting on sitting back and watching where he went, just so they could follow him home." There was a weighty pause, then he finished softly: "To us."


	8. Chapter 8: Consequences

**Reflections: Consequences **

Chapter Eight

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This story is being posted at a slightly quicker pace than I write, which means that after chapter 9, I will probably have to lengthen the interval between posts. Initially, I found this worrisome, but given that I haven't had to go back to adjust plot elements very often, perhaps it will be okay.

Of perhaps greater importance, I also need to rectify an omission on my part: I have neglected to thank the wonderful people who've been reading this story before it's posted. Thank you, Shay, for proofing and putting a stake through some of the over-abundance of commas, and for catching peculiarities of spelling when it comes to character names. Any that have snuck through are entirely my fault. Thank you, Lita, for being a perceptive reader. You've made me happier than I can express every time you've spotted a plot element without my having to rub it in. And, last but far from least, thank you to Kirei-Rei, Rose, Kelly, and the folks at the shadows of the fox group for putting up with my posting this as a WIP. Your willingness to read without throwing things at me has been most gratifying.

With regard to comments I have received:

'_Aya is OOC.'_ My first reaction was "Well, gee... You think? I wonder what Ken has been obsessing about for the past five chapters!" but that is a bit unfair. Remember, this story is being told from Ken's point of view. By that, I mean that what you as readers see is filtered by his perceptions. As time passed, his views on his teammates, and how he interacts with them has changed. Also, Aya himself has been through an experience that has changed how he interacts with others. The motivations that drive the characters aren't always clear, and that's as it should be, or I wouldn't have much of a story left to tell.

_'And, since you like to talk about plot devices :), it was nice to see another common plot device smashed: that of someone being raped during captivity. Instead, you completely reverse it until Aya was alone too much, which partially explains his strange behavior up to now.'_ YES! Phoinos, my catnip mouse is yours! Thank you for figuring it out. I personally think that so long as Aya has an opponent to struggle against, or a cause to fight for, that he's focused/obsessive enough to go through almost anything unscathed. But loneliness and neglect are a much more subtle thing to fight. There's no one, other than yourself, to strive against. The inevitable self-doubt would be more damaging than any direct torture. 

happy sigh

On to chapter 8. Enjoy!

L.A. Mason, a.k.a. LibraryCat

* * *

Ken wasn't sure quite what he expected when he stormed into the redhead's room, but this was definitely _not_ it. 

Aya's slanted eyes fixed unblinkingly on Ken's, staring at him past the flushed curve of the boy's cheek. Omi's dark lashes fluttered, but he made no attempt to resist when the man's lips shifted from the childishly soft mouth to the line of his jaw, still kissing with slow and careful precision.

Yohji had _known_ that this was going to happen. That was what he had been teasing about; a subtle warning to Ken concerning what he would find when he walked through that door.

It was hard to watch. Ken swallowed against the tightness in his throat, wishing he could run, wishing it was him cradled in Aya's lap, utterly helpless. Aya's lids lowered, veiling the remarkable blue violet as the gleam of white teeth scraped lightly over the hinge of the younger assassin's jaw. He nuzzled into the hollow below Omi's ear, rubbing his nose lightly over smooth skin before tilting his head a fraction to set the sharp points of his canines together on the lobe of that ear. The first sound that Ken had heard him make issued from between those teeth: a barely audible whine of tightly leashed frustration. Omi gave a faint, strangled groan in response, and fumbled one thin arm up behind Aya's shoulder, questing fingers gripping the too-short, fly-away strands of blood red. Ken knew precisely how strong those small fingers were, remembered them wrapping bandages around his chest, grabbing his wrist to tow him along in dizzy cheerfulness... But never like that. Never in passion.

Aya shifted the tensed body against his torso, one supporting arm behind the shoulder blades, and the other freed to stroke a palm more harshly up the lean chest. Omi shifted, arching back to bring the caress into line with one small nipple, just visible as a ghostly, tawny shadow through the white cotton. The hand continued without pausing at the involuntary shiver until the pale fingers curled around the back of the kid's skull, massaging the tendons even as Aya's thumb stroked the outside curve of the blushing ear. Red hair followed till strands of it mingled with shining gold, the swordsman's head leaning down to murmur something quiet. A tremor rippled down the taut form, and Omi relaxed back against the arm holding him with a shudder.

Whatever command Aya had given had rendered the slim boy bonelessly passive. The pulse of fear that shot through Ken's gut almost drowned out the growing arousal he had felt over watching his best friend making out with the feyly beautiful swordsman. But the fear turned back again into something darker when Aya opened his eyes again and just _looked_ at him.

He had never seen anything like that, not in Aya. The tilted, storm gray eyes widened, glittering with emotion that might be a desire to do violence, or might simply be desire. As if even desire could be simple when it involved anyone that confusing and messed up.

Omi slid off the bed in a fluid rush that was nothing like his usual scramble. Mesmerized as he was by Aya's hot gaze, Ken hardly noticed until the boy was right in front of him, reaching up small, slender hands to grasp his shoulders and tow him toward the rumpled bed. But once he did look, the young man couldn't tear his eyes from the youth leading him.

Walking backwards, the kid's usual high energy was very apparent, but instead of bouncing as he normally did, his movements were quick and agile. The top of his shining sleek blond hair was level with Ken's nose, distractingly soft as it shifted in the room's low light. Then Omi's intense dark blue gaze captured his, and an unmistakable buzz of desire slid along his nerves. The teenager just looked so _good_, his winter-faded tan giving his fair skin a faint, golden glow, and unfamiliar passion heightening the effect by touching his cheekbones with rouge. Fleetingly, the older boy wondered if Ouka had ever gotten that much of a reaction from the kid, or if his mask of good cheer hadn't extended to it. Wondered if this was something reserved for their watching companion.

Whatever it was, Omi sure wasn't letting inexperience get in his way. It was possible that even if Ken had been inclined to resist – which he was too stunned to contemplate – that the petit assassin would have been able to drag him to bed by force. When the mattress brushed the backs of Omi's legs, he adroitly stepped and folded until he was kneeling on the edge, still pulling his captive along with him. The brunet didn't have a chance to balk when his turn came. One of the hands transferred from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, slipping into the ragged, near-black strands of Ken's hair, while the other shifted lower, gripping his hip with bruising strength. His knees were on the bed, bumping Omi's before he had a clue as to what was happening.

A big part of his mental processes had just been trashed by the moist impact of rose-soft lips. Ken had maybe a second to register that the fleeting contact had been from the boy before larger, stronger hands closed onto his waist and neck, hot where they glanced across bare skin. His eyes were rolling back into his head, shock bringing him to the edge of hyperventilating.

The electric sizzle of the mouth that descended onto Ken's was nothing like the sweet brush of the kid's lips. Omi was sunshine, and the exuberance of a bright spring morning, while this was a midnight thunderstorm during the breathless height of a summer heat wave. The hard-suppressed violence and desperation of the contact couldn't be hidden by its slow deliberation. Aya was sucking on Ken's lower lip until he pouted involuntarily, offering the soft flesh. In sudden contrast, sharp teeth closed hard enough to wring a sob of pain from the brunet, even as it drove a spike of pleasure straight through his gut. The teeth held Ken captive while the agile tip of Aya's tongue tormented the sliver of trapped skin and tissue, burning every nerve. Lightheaded, gulping for breath, Ken finally jerked back and was released before he could hurt himself.

"Wow... So _that's_ what a kiss looks like..." Omi's husky, wondering voice reminded the athlete that he had just had the kid as a very close up and personal witness to Aya destroying what little presence of mind Ken had left. "I want to, to try..."

What Omi wanted became abundantly clear as he transferred his arms to wind around Ken's neck, and went to work finishing what the older assassin had begun.

Different, but oddly the same. Eager, soft to the point of tickling until delicate teeth nipped his bruised lower lip, sending a shock straight down to curl his toes in his socks. Wow... Ken barely felt Omi transfer himself to sit astride his thighs until the enthusiastic strength of slender hands caged him temple and jaw. The kid's thumbs stroked outward along Ken's cheekbones as his blunt nails scraped the brunet's scalp, wringing forth another shudder like a horse flinching under the stinging bite of a fly. An overload of sensation was making it difficult for him to sit still, especially when he had no idea where to put his hands. Just because Omittchi was kissing the daylights out of him didn't make it appropriate for Ken to put his hands just anywhere; they fluttered, indecisive, until warm palms slid over the backs of his knuckles, and strong fingers interlaced themselves with his. The new hands guided the athlete's arms down and around Omi's trim waist, wrapping him tight in a double embrace.

The heated brush of fine hair over the nape of Ken's neck, followed as it was by a moist kiss and once again the electric scrape of incisors and sharp canines nearly made his heart stutter to a stop. Frozen as he was in shock, he made no effort to resist as hard bone and muscle settled against his back. _Please, God... Don't let Yohji come by and look in just now..._ Ken was acutely aware of just what he must look like, sitting back on his shins with Omi straddling his legs, and with what could only be the once-aloof swordsman kneeling at his back, the soccer player firmly nestled between his out-stretched thighs. Worse, Ken was caged between two guys with definite hard-ons, if he was to judge by the pressure against his backside and the definite friendliness of the blond in front of him. The only good news was that Omi was so caught up in necking that he hadn't noticed that he was practically sitting on top of a third one.

Twisting aside, he stammered, "P- p-please!" _Please what?_ wasn't exactly clear even in his own mind, but Ken was damned sure that he had better stop while the stopping was good. Or, if not good, at least a possibility. Frantic, he untangled his fingers from Aya's strong grip, catching Omi by the waist and lifting him bodily. The petit blond squeaked in a mixture of surprise and outrage, but he was no match against the older youth's nearly desperate strength. Panicking, Ken gabbled out "Oh, God! Please! Omi—You—Oh, my God. I gotta--"

"No, you do not 'gotta.' " The intensity of the low baritone stood every hair on Ken's body on end. Or at least it felt that way as it slid like heated sake around his nerves. It made him go limp with the sudden urge to lean into the unyielding muscle at his back as an arm that snaked about his waist locked him in place. The puff of Aya's breath against the sweat-dampened back of Ken's neck sent another shudder down his spine. Then the man's sensual voice dropped even lower, as if unaware of the effect he was having, which damn it all didn't seem possible with Ken practically melting into his lap, and he asked thoughtfully, "Too much, too fast?"

"Yeah," Ken gasped in reply. "Something like that."

"Then we'll stop. Omi-- " The last was addressed to the quivering teenager astride his lap. For a second, it seemed like the kid would chose to ignore the command, then he kissed Ken on the cheek tenderly. "Sorry, Ken-kun. I didn't mean to get carried away."

Damn. The younger Weiss sounded genuinely sorry, as if he blamed himself. "N- no! Omi, wait. It's not you. Even though, God, you could've knocked me over with a feather. I never dreamed you would-- " Ken grabbed him by the biceps as he tried to slide off the older youth's legs. Surprise warred with distress until a wobbly but sunny smile appeared.

"You're not mad?"

"God, no. Flabbergasted, more like. But never mad. You're my best friend, Omittchi. How could I be mad at you?" Embarrassingly, his voice cracked on the final question, making Ken sound like the younger of them. It surprised a real grin out of the teenager, and his eyes danced with giddy pleasure. He bounced a little, and giggled, swooping back in to plant a sloppy smooch on Ken's other cheek. If the kid got any higher, he would float away. As it was, his reaction to necking with two of his best friends was making him act drunk.

"Omi." The command in the low voice arrested the smaller blond before he could take matters any farther. "Enough."

To Ken's surprise, the cheerful face didn't collapse immediately; Omi didn't even pout although there was disappointment in his quiet sigh. He exhaled, blowing the breath up through his bangs but settled down to sit cross legged on Aya's bed. "Yeah, I know. I didn't mean to get carried away. Again. Sorry." Then his mouth trembled, and he had to fix his stare on the creased bedspread before his wide eyes overflowed.

Pulling the slight form back into his lap for a different kind of hug was instinctive, and the brunet didn't hesitate at all. That Aya's also arms came up around the both of them was unexpected but he didn't argue, not even when the swordsman tugged at him, pulling the them over so that Omi ended up lying in between, tangled with both their bodies. This time, Omi was the one who was cradled between his friends, kept safe and lulled into deep and dreamless sleep. As he quickly followed the younger boy into oblivion, Ken drowsily figured that, being as the kid was the one who always worried about the rest of them, it was only fair.

* * *

A loud whimper dragged Ken back from the depths of some confusing nightmare about Kase, and drowning, and some soccer groupie girl whose name he couldn't even remember. He blinked, driving the image of straight, waist-length black hair out of his head in favor of sweat-streaked blond that was glued to his temple and cheek. He blinked again, going cross-eyed as he tried to focus on normally fly-away wisps that tangled into his eyelashes and ended up in his mouth. Bleh. Although he recognized the chamomile and honey taste and scent as belonging to the weird concoction Omi had mixed up during one of his energetic fits when it had been imperative to find a use for the flower shop's left-over stock. Which meant that the trembling, whining weight half on his ribs had to be the junior member of Weiss. 

By his other side, the mattress creaked and shifted as Aya sat up. Ken caught a glimpse of the concerned frown creasing the smooth skin between the man's thin brows, then Omi was starting up, thrashing onto his knees as a shriek burst from his parted lips. The terrified blue eyes were barely open before Aya reached across to intercept him, grunting a little in pain at the not-inconsiderable impact of frantic fists into his injured shoulder. Ken floundered upright as well, lending a hand to lift Omi across his chest and into the redhead's lap.

"Shh, shh... You're safe." murmured Aya, his warm baritone wrapping as tightly around the shivering boy as his arms.

"Daddy?! No, don't leave-- " The anguished wail cut off abruptly as Omi came full aware, and realized where he was, and who he was screaming at. The horror of his dream transformed into another kind of horror as, mortified, he buried his burning face in his hands. "Kannon have mercy; I can't believe I just did this." he mumbled.

Against its owner's will, Aya's mouth twitched; Ken could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile. "Indeed." he said dryly, "I assure you that being mistaken for Takatori Reiji is not high on my list of ways to wake up."

Startled, Omi's head jerked up. The movement would have caught the older assassin in the chin except that his reflexes allowed him to tilt back just in time. "What?" The blue eyes darkened in distress as the precise words he had spoken came back to him. "Oh! Aya-kun, I wasn't calling you—that. It... it was a n- nightmare. That's all. I was dreaming about being left with the kidnappers, and they were going to kill m-m-me..." His face crumpled and tears flooded down over splotched cheeks.

"I know." The sleeves of his blue sweater were vivid against the stark white of the boy's cotton shirt as he hugged the thin figure closer. "We aren't going to abandon you, Omi. Never think that. You're Weiss, and I don't intend to let that change."

Omi sobbed, returning the embrace with all the strength he could summon, and refused to let go until he began hiccuping uncontrollably and begging them to forgive him. Ken rolled his eyes and ran to the bathroom for a glass of water. It kind of bothered him that the kid's good-for-nothing family still had such a hold on him that they could still make him cry, but if nothing else, it proved that he was still human. The Takatori were the ones who were scum for treating the sweet child like garbage, as if not worth their time or money.

After gulping down the tepid water, it still took several minutes to calm the distraught boy so that the hiccups abated. They took turns to reassure him that yes, everything was okay, and no, neither Ken nor Aya were pissed at him. The exasperated soccer player repeated the mantra, "Omi, just chill. We don't hate you." one more time, but this time the quivering lower lip and the way the kid's wet lashes stuck together into clumps made something splinter apart deep inside him. Ken grabbed Omi's face between his hands and kissed him soundly to make the point. A tiny, suffocated _squeak_ heralded a complete melting, and that was a bit scary. Flustered, Ken pulled back and helped tilt Omi back upright.

The noise coming out of the kid was not crying. It was laughter.

The now-giggling teen broke into a goofy grin and dashed off downstairs to start breakfast. Ken flopped back onto the bed, scrubbing his hands through his ruffled, sun streaked hair. At the rate things were going, he was going to be bald from giving in to the temptation to yank it all out by the roots.

He had not just kissed a teammate into submission.

Hell. Yes, he had.

Something very like grief flooded him. There was a line, invisible maybe, but none-the-less real for all that, that he had not only crossed, but burned to ash. What the fuck had possessed him to go there?

How could he have betrayed Omi's trust like that?

There had to be a heck of a lot of bad karma swimming around out there with the name Hidaka Ken attached to it, and it had all just come home to roost. There was no other explanation for his behavior, because, unlike on the previous night which he could always claim had not been his idea, that the other Hunters had been the ones to start things rolling, this had been entirely his fault.

It had been one thing for the two of them, him and Omi, to plot new and devious ways to yank Yohji's chain, doing things like faking howls of animal passion while banging the headboard into the wall between their rooms. He would never forget the first time they had succeeded in causing the frazzled playboy to come storming in, screaming 'What the fuck are you doing?!' only to discover the two of them, fully clothed, rolling around in hysterics. It had been more than worthwhile having to repair the busted latch on his bedroom door when all either of them had had to do for days afterward was to make kissy-faces and moan. But this, this was something entirely different. There would be no taking back the sensation of amazingly soft lips on his, or of a trim body fitted into his lap...

Just when had Omi developed an interest in kissing, anyway?

Whimpering softly, Ken prayed fervently for the power to turn back time, or, failing that, a lightning bolt striking dead-center where he lay. But neither happened. Thinking it over, there was a fair possibility that Omi had started out with the intent of distracting their companion from his spiral of self-revulsion and misery. Which, while a kind-hearted sentiment worthy of the nicest kid he had ever met, was still a really stupid reason for landing in this kind of a situation. Things had gotten way beyond that, to judge by the buzzing tingle in his lips, and the uncomfortable heat centered a lot lower in his body. He was just going to have to figure out what was going on, and find a way to make things right with his best friend. And that meant he would have to talk to the enigmatic center of all the mysteries obsessing him: Aya. He took a deep breath, ordering his frazzled nerves to shut the fuck up, and broached the topic.

"Hey, um... Which one of you started it?"

Aya didn't have to ask what 'it' he was referring to, answering with detached calm, "Omi."

The temptation to haul off and punch the annoying man who stretched out at his side was immense and immediate. Ken's fingers clenched as he forced himself to remember that Aya was not only a teammate, he was already recovering from worse abuse than any of them had suffered since the spectacular battle to rescue Aya-chan and put a stop to Esset's plans. Adding to his injuries would not endear him to the group's medic... Temper derailed, his stomach went into a moment of guilty free-fall: he couldn't hurt a man who might possibly – scary thought - be on his way to becoming the kid's lover. He groaned. "Jesus fucking Christ. What made you go along with it?"

The sensuous, deep voice sent a shiver up the younger man's spine; close as they lay together, Aya's breath tickled the short hairs around his ear. "I learned a couple of things while I was a prisoner. One of them is that it's a mistake to think that relying on no one but oneself is a strength. Because it isn't. Keeping others at arm's length is a weakness. Being deliberately alone is a weakness. Treating another as an object that doesn't matter, is a weakness."

To hear Aya verbalize the thoughts that he had entertained himself, barely two days before was frightening. Ken had just made the decision that he didn't care who he got involved with because he wasn't going to allow that person to reach his heart, and here was the proud redhead admitting that when he had followed that path, it had been a mistake. Confused, the younger man rolled onto his stomach and propped himself on his elbows so that he could look down at the pale, handsome face on the pillow beside him.

Lashes a shade darker auburn than that glorious hair rested on the smooth curve of translucent skin. Even the fading bruise was beautiful seen this close up, layers of color transparent beneath a covering that was too perfect to be human, let alone part of a very much alive, very attractive male package that was lying inches away in bed. It didn't help that he kept flashing on that all-too-brief make out session, because even with his reservations over Omi's part in it, the rest had been incredible. It was a damned good thing that he was lying on his stomach, although the pressure of the resilient bed was _not_ helping matters.

As if sensing his regard, Aya's lashes quivered and his violet eyes blinked open, meeting Ken's chocolate brown regard steadily. There was none of the half-crazy, terrified frenzy that their interrogation had nearly sent him into. It was more like looking down the shaft of a well, where the sheer weight of the transparent water rendered it impenetrable.

"What are you thinking about?" Aya whispered.

"You..." Whatever else he might have intended to say trailed off into silent contemplation as Aya shifted closer, his shoulder now pressed against Ken's elbow where it was planted on the bed. Prior to the travesty that had begun as a vacation, the athlete had never been this close to the older assassin when they weren't preoccupied with trying to just stay alive. The myriad, unanticipated details flooding his senses were making his head swim.

Aya didn't have much of a scent, just laundry detergent and a faint wood-smoke aroma from the old sweater that he liked to wear when lounging in front of the cabin's fireplace. It made sense that he eschewed the strong colognes that Yohji was fond of; Ken could almost hear the precise, disapproving voice saying that smells like that could give away an operative's location to observant guards – human or canine. It sent him off into a momentary fantasy about what Aya _would _smell good as... Ken couldn't decide, but he was tired of flowers, and aftershave didn't seem right, either. Thinking out loud, he murmured, "...leather, maybe. Or something a little spicy, like cardamom, or ginger."

The slanted violet eyes widened marginally, amused by the comments. Ken felt his face heat, and ducked his head a little to hide behind a tangle of his own bangs. Distracted, he thought that he really should get a hair cut. The portion that last summer's sun had bleached to chestnut streaks was growing out and the darker roots probably looked weird... then lean fingers had hold of his chin and were forcing him to look up again, and he was trapped all over by the prettiest eyes...

Ken had no idea when he had started thinking of them as just violet, because they weren't. Their irises were flecked steel blue and silver, touched with lilac and orchid, and given reflected color by the thick lines of lashes that were cherry-wood dark. He was just opening his mouth to say something stupidly poetic to that effect when the hand gripping his chin slid around behind his neck and pulled him down close enough to kiss.

A light brush of dry silk against his mouth was punctuated by the breath of words: "Why..." _Touch_. "...think..." _Nibble_. "... at all?" The tip of a tongue teased across Ken's parted lips, dragging a whimper out of the depth of his soul.

_I'm on top..._ Ken thought woozily._ I can back off from this, anytime._ But he couldn't. The gentle pressure against the base of his skull could as well have been one of those bizarre American TV wrestlers trapping him in a headlock, for all the capacity he had left to struggle. With five slim fingers, Aya had him trapped. Gasping, the younger man jerked back, wide eyed and flushed as if he had run a marathon, or fought with Schwartz all over again. _I'm on top – so why is this so freaking hard to get free of?!_ He was off the bed, down the hall, and slamming the door to his own room before an answer could come to him, distracted and confused, and completely aware that Aya had let him go. A sob tore loose from his chest, and Ken sagged bonelessly against the closed panel, a trembling hand pressed against his mouth.

God, how he _wanted_ Aya.

Ken pushed away from the solid support of the door and began pacing his room with long, swinging strides. There wasn't really enough space, but he would be damned if he would go downstairs to the living room, and outside where he might by some remote chance be spotted was likewise out of the question. Moving helped, though. Action of any sort calmed his nerves, made him think better and faster, whether it was seeing strategies in soccer, or hunting the Dark Beasts. And right now, he needed all the help he could get because nothing made any sense at all.

This had gone way beyond Aya just acting a bit strange thanks to drugs, or whatever. The man was playing some sort of game, acting out some hidden program of his own, and Ken had zero intention of playing along. They were a team yes, but there were things that didn't figure into teamwork, and he _knew_ he had just stumbled over one. Derisively, the brunet snorted to himself at that. Less stumbled, and more like a face-first pratfall into a cow-pie.

He could kind of see how Omi would fall for a suddenly more approachable, touchy-feely kind of Aya. The gifted swordsman had always been fuck-me-and-die gorgeous, both in physical form and in his skill with his chosen weapon. Their first meeting had ended with Ken laying the man out cold on the floor, and he had suspected even then that if there hadn't been just a hint of uncertainty to throw Aya off balance, it would have ended the other way around, with himself bleeding out on the flower shop's floor. Pure luck as much as ability had let him win that once, and the winning had set the tone for their interactions for weeks afterward. Cold hostility fit Aya like a glove, and had done an equally effective job of preventing anyone from taking his hand to welcome him. Aya didn't touch, or accept touch, so why the hell was he making out with the exact same teammates that he had always shunned?

It didn't make any sense at all. He muttered, "Christ, Aya... What is going on in that fucked up head of yours? Why are you doing this?"

A little part of Ken – like the horny libido part that wasn't good at thinking through the consequences of a course of action – was clamoring that he march right back down the hall and see just how far the redhead would be willing to take things. He could even justify it to some extent by reminding himself of his decision that from here on out, any partners he took would be just a body to share the physical with, and not a friend, or, God forbid, a lover. He was _not_ going to do it, even when traitorous memory painted a very clear picture of Aya's normally pale lips coloring a shade darker pink, a sharp contrast to the flash of white teeth as they parted a little in a sensuous smile. Ken tugged at a handful his hair in frustration; he didn't know if he had even seen that smile, or if it was his over-active imagination deciding to torture him.

One thing was very clear, though. No matter what had transpired, Omi was still his best friend. He needed to talk this strange seduction out with him, and preferably before the other boy lost his capacity to think along with his virginity.

* * *

As it turned out, all Ken had to do was to follow the sound of shouting to the Villa's living room. Deep in worried thought and moving through the comfortable house like a zombie, Ken had been on his way to the kitchen when he started noticing things like the spider webs in the corners of the room's high ceiling, and how they swayed with the faint draft leaking through the big sliding glass doors, and how the angry pitch of Omi's voice burned the diffident politeness from it, giving it more the timbre of an adult. By contrast, Yohji's idiotic drawl became more infuriating, exaggerated to the point where he sounded like a street punk as he reclined lazily on the couch with his feet propped up on its arm. 

Ken had absolutely no idea what they were fighting about this time.

Standing in front of the older man with his fists clenched, the kid was freshly showered, autumn gold hair sticking up in damp clumps, presumably from the vigorous application of the towel that was looped around his neck. The white button-down shirt that had caused so much trouble had been traded for a black turtleneck that hung on his slender frame, suggesting that it had been borrowed from a teammate's closet. With a sinking feeling, Ken figured he could guess which one. And judging by the enraged flush on both Yohji and Omi's faces, clothing was probably the cause of this argument as well.

"I did not sleep with him, you asshole! But even if I did, it wouldn't be any of your business!" Wide blue eyes gone to pewter and steel, the grim look Omi that speared the older blond man with promised a world of pain. Yohji visibly flinched, sinking back into the sofa cushions, the sensation of the smaller boy kicking him in the groin and taking him down far from forgotten. That had been the first time that any of them could remember a quarrel hitting a physical level with the youngest of their team. And it was obvious the shorter Weiss wasn't regretting his past actions. In fact, he seemed to be taking sadistic pleasure in driving home the change in the tenor of their interactions.

Yohji hadn't called him 'kiddo,' or 'chibi,' or any other cutesy nickname since getting dropped on his ass. It made Ken wonder if Omi objected to being treated like a child... And guiltily he realized that he was no better than Yohji, constantly referring to their little hacker as 'kid,' even if he mainly restricted it to his thoughts. The Omi that stood, shaking with the effort to control his temper wasn't all that different from the one Ken had met three years earlier when he joined Weiss. Or was he?

This Omi was still short for his age, no matter whose definition one used, but he had grown several inches in the time Ken had known him. His face had lost some of its cherubic sweetness, becoming more handsome as the planes of his cheekbones and jaw emerged from puppy plumpness. While he had always been sure-footed and adept with his weapons, he was now graceful in an unstudied, unselfconscious way. But most important of all, with his steady temperament and intelligence, Omi was most likely the most mature of the four of them. And that said a lot, given that Yohji was the oldest at twenty-five and Omi was only seventeen.

At some point, while Ken hadn't been watching, the kid had grown up.

"Um, Ken-kun... Do I have something on my face? You've been staring at me." The husky alto shocked Ken out of his reverie, bringing with it a hot blush. Yohji coughed, and snickered, amused that the wrath of the petit teen was focused on someone other than him.

"Wha-- ? Oh, crap! Sorry, Omi, I didn't mean to-- " What the heck was he thinking? He was mooning over his own teammate, and it wasn't like him _at all_! Ken resisted the temptation to smack his forehead into the wall. Christ on a crutch, he was again thinking as if Omi was someone he was interested in. It was so not happening. Blue eyes widened in shock.

"—would think he was the one who got his butt kicked." Yohji complained. There was a note of teasing beneath the whine, and the hint of a smile around the cigarette in his mouth as he took another drag.

An amazing shade of pink flooded the smaller blond's face, continuing on down his throat to where his shirt hugged his collar bones. He squeaked, "Yohji-kun! Don't say things like that!" flapping his hands frantically. Blithely, the older man went on, "Oh, come on, Omittchi. Don't tell me that you don't like it that everybody is looking at you in a new way?"

As revenge went, Yohji was being fairly gentle about it. He smirked at the sputtering teenager, and winked at Ken who felt a blush of his own rising in a tide toward his hairline. Then he unfolded his length from the couch, blew a smoke ring vaguely in their direction, and slouched off toward the door. A casual wave over his shoulder was accompanied by "Bye-bye, boys. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"As if." Omi muttered to the shaggy green carpet. Big eyes, gone midnight dark with worry, cut upward to look at the older youth, then returned to their determined examination of the nap. "You hate me, don't you?"

"Huh? NO! No, of course not, Omi." exclaimed Ken. He took an involuntary step toward the smaller figure, noting how he hunched his shoulders defensively. The anger that had let him stand up against the playboy had vanished. "Oh, Omi... I could never hate you. If anything, you ought to be pissed at me, for taking advantage of your friendship. I should never have let things get so out of hand."

Anguished, the blond head jerked up, the delicate mouth trembling. "You! But I-- " Something died in Omi's expression, leaving him wan and unhappy. "You think I'm just a little kid, too. Don't you?"

"No, of course not-- " But his expression betrayed that that was exactly what he had been thinking about, even if he _didn't_ believe Omi was a child anymore. Before he could explain, the slim form was pelting up the stairs to the second floor, and the sound of a door being slammed rang through the house. Frustrated, Ken threw himself down on the swaybacked old couch.

The dull, throbbing beat behind his eyelids and inside his temples had to be a subversive plot, because it hurt worse than the time he had let Omi talk him into sneaking the underage boy in to hear an American grunge band perform at a club near home. That band had been so bad that his skull had been pounding for a couple of days after, just like the way he hurt right now. Ken gripped a double handful of his messy, chestnut brown hair and tugged hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"Hey, hey... It's not that bad, is it?" That voice, with its clipped, lower class Tokyo accent was surprisingly gentle. The couch frame shook and sagged a little as Yohji sat down by his side. Ken managed a miserable little nod.

"Yeah, it is..." He burrowed his fingers in along his scalp, trying to find the pressure points so that he could hopefully relieve some of the headache beating him down. A quiet, exasperated sigh was all the warning he had as the wire man's strong fingers disentangled him from his hair.

"Geeze, kiddo!" the older Hunter muttered. "Let me do that." Yohji shifted around on the couch, tugging at Ken's stiff shoulders until he had him turned sideways, facing toward the lean man.

Ken couldn't decide which was more of a shock: the Great Kudoh wearing a serious frown of concentration, or the fact that the senior Weiss was bothering to pay attention to _him_, to the sports freak. Yohji had actually left his shades somewhere, but not hiding behind them didn't automatically mean that his motivations were clear to be read. Imprisoned though he was by the long fingers digging expertly into his head, he tried to shake it in confusion. "Why are you doing this?" he muttered resentfully. "You've supposed to be an asshole so I can tell you off."

The wide mouth twitched, and quirked up into a grin. The mockery in it seemed to be mostly directed inward, against the playboy himself, rather than at the thoroughly confused brunet. "I can do that, if it makes you feel any better."

"Yohji!" Exasperated, Ken batted away the hands that suddenly made him uncomfortable. He felt a momentary pang when the forest green eyes opposite darkened, but the other man had settled into the angle of the couch arm, hooking an elbow over its back. The lanky assassin fished for his pack of smokes and lit up, the movements providing his hands with something to do. His voice was neutral when he finally continued.

"I did have a reason for coming to talk to you, you know? I was thinking about Aya, and his story... and it hit me that he only told us about the first couple of days he was a prisoner."

"Huh? But..." Scowling, Ken thought back to the first time they had managed to have a conversation with Aya. He distinctly remembered that Omi had gotten the swordsman to look at the mug shots that he had hacked from the police computers, only one of whom had looked familiar to the redhead. At that point, Aya had said flatly that he had been kept in a windowless, constantly lit room, and had had no concept of how much time he had passed there. That had been just before the katana adept had manipulated Ken into volunteering to go to Tanagawa. The younger Weiss had been understandably distracted after that, occupied by studying the industrial town, and putting together a plausible cover for his being there. Yohji followed his mental struggle, and _tsked_ when Ken hit the inevitable roadblock.

"Think, sweetie. I know that you're smarter than you generally give yourself credit for. We've got two areas to look into. One, what the cops know, and aren't talking about. And, two, the Ice Prince. Aya claims that they left him locked up, pretty much alone, for days. But someone brought him food, and someone bandaged his wounds. Now, whoever it was didn't sew him up, so it's gotta be a person with only basic first aid skills, but you can be damned sure he wouldn't have made it without that attention."

Shit, but there was something to what the former PI was saying. Frowning, Ken ran back over the little bits they had gotten out of their rescued friend, and yes, it was obvious now that he was looking that Aya was still being evasive. He might have appeared to give in and tell all, but there was a lot that he had held back. And, as Omi had pointed out more than once, something was up with the police if he couldn't find any information through them, either. There was something that they knew, and chose to conceal, because it would implicate their suspects.

Both owners of the whorehouse had known the two foreigners: Honey had said that Mishakawa had let them in to the brothel, and they had seen the one walking with Iida on the videotape. It bugged him that there was nothing further on any of the tapes he had purchased, but that might only mean that they had been at the club and had fallen into the hands of the police. Adding on the two hookers, that meant that a minimum of six people had been aware of Aya's presence. The odds were against Honey knowing anything useful beyond what she had told him in Tanagawa – if she had any more secrets, she would almost certainly have hit the athlete up for more money – but there might be things that she wasn't aware of. Like the connection to the one woman Aya had seen.

And, Yohji was right; Aya hadn't said anything concrete about his experiences after waking up filthy with only a four-day growth of beard.

The older man had waited patiently while the younger struggled through his conclusions, but now he leaned forward, placing a hand on Ken's knee to attract his attention. His tone was bleak as he said, "Remember when Birman's pet doctor, that Nariakira guy, checked Aya over? He said that the fractured cheekbone had happened only about a week earlier. Two weeks after the beating that let them take him. So, what I want to know is, what happened to earn him a serious wallop like that? You know as well as I do that a casual punch to the face generally doesn't break a cheekbone. Nose, sure. Jaw? Yeah, a solid hit can shatter a guy's jaw... but like the brow ridge, the cheekbone is a part of the skull's protection system for the weak spot that the eye represents. I'm betting it wasn't a fist he was hit with."

It was getting hard to breathe; pain flooded Ken's chest. He protested weakly, "Aya said he wasn't raped."

"And if he wasn't, great." the tall blond retorted. He sagged back into his corner, removing his hand from the athlete's knee. It left a residual spot of distracting heat, like the ghost image of an infrared photo. "But just so you know, there's a lot he obviously isn't sharing. Somebody needs to go after that information."

"But... how are we going to find out? Oh... Oh, no. You can't mean it!" The protest became emphatic as Ken watched Yohji's expression turn smug.

"An why not? He opens up to you and Omittchi. I'd suggest it to Little Bro, but he's been smitten pretty hard to judge by the noises I was hearing this morning, and I'm not sure he's exactly objective at the moment. I'm thinking he'd be better off going after the police, with me. "

"Why don't you go after Aya?" desperate, Ken grabbed hold of the blond's elbow as he stood up. The lanky form cocked a hip out as he stuck an insolent pose and smirked.

"Nah. Despite appearances, I really do prefer women. If I'm gonna go after a guy, even one as fuck-me gorgeous as Fujimiya, I prefer 'em to be the sort I don't have to face in the morning. And the morning after that, if you get my drift."

Blushing furiously, Ken snatched his hand back. Just when he was starting to think Yohji might be an okay kind of guy after all, he had to come out with something crude like that. His thoughts must have been plain on his face, because the older man's face softened and he rumpled Ken's hair with affection. "Look, I'm not suggesting you screw him, even though you might as well and have the pleasure along with the hassle, I'm just saying that he's more likely to trust you, and not question your motives. Me, he's going to be wondering what I'm up to from the get-go, and I'd never get past his defenses. Because, face it, we not only need to know what happened to him while those guys had him, but what the police are up to, too. So you can think of it as a two-step mission: infiltrate Aya, _and_ the cops."

What Ken had been about to say froze on his tongue. Yohji was seriously suggesting that he try to get information from Aya, and leave the cops to the other Weiss?

"Why is that, Yohji? I've watched you wiggle and squirm your way close to lots of targets..."

"Yeah, I've got the talent, all right. The difference is, those aren't people I care about." answered Yohji. A careless grin broke out, and he raised one hand in farewell as he ambled back toward the stairs. "Think about it, Kenken."


	9. Chapter 9: Preparations

**Reflections: Preparations **

_Chapter 9_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

* * *

_Oh, sweet Jesus... There's a hand on my leg._ Ken shuddered at the familiar soft touch of hard fingers, sliding up the outside of his thigh to settle lightly on his hip, meltingly cool against the heat of his bare skin. 

He shot up with a jerk, panting harshly against the lingering grip of the dream. _Shit! Now I'm **dreaming** about him._ Because that touch had unmistakably been that of Aya. After a couple of minutes of fruitless flailing around, trying to orient himself, Ken realized a couple of things: one, he was still on the couch in the living room, having dozed off there after his conversation with Yohji, and two, he was completely alone. For once, he hadn't ended up in bed with anyone, and no one had crawled in with him. It was a relief, even if it felt... lonesome. He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, laying the thick brown strands down into something resembling order, and tried to still his pounding heart. He tried to focus on Yohji, and Omi, and whatever the detective could possibly have in mind for getting into the good graces of the cops, because there sure as hell was no way they could just _sneak_ into the police headquarters. Not if they intended to learn anything useful and get back out again. Anything. He would think about anything. So long as it meant not having to contemplate his half of the mission, which was to get close enough to Aya to worm the rest of the story out of him.

Miserable, he let himself fall forward into a hunch, resting his elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands. There might be three more people in the house, but it felt painfully quiet, and he wondered what the others were up to. Well, Aya... Aya had almost certainly gone back to sleep. He had over-extended his waxing strength until exhaustion had claimed him not once, but several times in the past couple of days. If he didn't want to suffer a relapse, or get hit by the incipient pneumonia that Nariakira-sensei had mentioned, he would need to take it easy. Omi would almost certainly be up in the bedroom with the convalescent, just to keep an eye on him and to make sure he really did rest – even if there wasn't something going on between them. Ken shoved _that_ thought away hastily. He could still taste his younger teammate's kisses in his brain if not in actuality, and he didn't need to go there.

That just left Yohji as a distraction. Yohji, who, since he wasn't in the living room smoking up a storm, and couldn't go outside, was most likely up in his own room. Without thinking, the athlete bounced off the couch and ran up the stairs two at a time.

Once he reached the hall that ran from front to back on the second floor, Ken discovered that the house wasn't as dead quiet as he had believed. Omi's bedroom door was wide open, showing that no one was home, as was the door to the bathroom. Down at the end of the hall, he could see that Aya's was firmly closed. But Yohji's, opposite, stood ajar and the low sounds of music poured out. The driving rock beat was muted, suggesting that the older man was trying to be considerate for a change. There was a pause, and the rising/falling cadence of speech, then the music started up again. This time it was recognizably T.M. Revolution, although Ken wasn't entirely certain which song it might be. He hesitated in front of the door, trying to decide if coming up to see the older Weiss was a good idea, or not.

"Come inside, would you? You make me tired standing around like that." The low, amused tone jerked Ken back out of his thoughts. Embarrassed, he nudged the door the rest of the way open and took a solitary step into the bare room. Stretched out flat on his bed, Yohji let the magazine he had been reading flop onto his chest.

It was weird; Ken couldn't remember the last time he had visited the older Hunter like this, was almost positive he had never been _in_ his quarters at Villa Weiss before. At least, if he had, it didn't look anything like what he had imagined the space would be. There were no piles of dirty clothes on the floor, no piles of empty beer cans stacked precariously on every level surface. Just a boom box tuned to a radio station and a single overflowing ashtray. As he looked around, silently bewildered, the TMR piece ended and a slow song off a Puffy AmiYumi album began. 'Kore ga watashi no ikirumichi...' _That's the way it is..._

_Christ. Talk about setting the scene..._

The blond's patient consideration was starting to get to him, and his voice low with desperation, Ken blurted out, "Yohji... What are we gonna do?" When the ridicule he expected failed to materialize, he felt his own gaze go skating off to the side, wanting nothing so much as the bland, non-judgmental surface of the wooden floor to occupy it. He registered the quiet squeak of the bed frame as the older man sat up. The magazine slapped onto the bare floor, dropped casually over the side.

"We're going to figure out what's wrong with Aya, and we're going to make it right." Yohji answered gently. "He may be a prick sometimes, but he's _our_ prick... And he's our friend, too."

"But... how?"

"Hell if I know. Persistence, I guess. He wouldn't be reaching out to you and Omi unless he needed to, so I guess the thing to do is to go along with it, to give him what he's looking for."

Ken turned toward Yohji, seeing the consternation he felt mirrored on the senior Hunter's face: mouth turned down as his customary smile died, and sympathy in unexpectedly kind eyes. What he wanted to say got stuck on the way out. "He... needs... us?"

"Look, have you ever really given some thought to what kind of a guy he is?" the other man asked, scooting up to lean against the head board. He waved Ken toward the other end of the mattress, inviting him to have a seat. Frowning, he complied, but not until after he had given some consideration to Yohji's likely motives. The blond was right; if _he_ couldn't put his suspicions out of his mind, there was no way Aya would be able to relax around him. And that was why he couldn't back out on his friends over this assignment that he had gotten stuck with.

"I don't know... A bastard, most of the time, I guess." Ken shrugged, fatalistically aware that it was not the answer his teammate was fishing for.

"Ah, but _why_ is he a bastard? Have you ever wondered about that? I mean, all joking aside, bastards aren't born, they're made. So what made the Ice Prince into one?" Engaged, Yohji leaned forward, resting his elbows on the thighs of his crossed legs. It was a switch to see him so interested in a topic, but then again, it was about a person that they all lived and killed with. Aya's motivations would obviously be of interest. Yohji liked to read people, and was good at it. Trying to out-guess a guy as emotionally messed up as Aya had to be a real challenge.

"Well... There's the Takatori-killed-my-parents-and-put-my-sister-in-a-coma thing." Ken offered self-consciously. Phrased like that, it didn't sound like a whole lot, and it bothered him that he had been living with the guy for close to two years and that was nearly the sum of his knowledge. "Unless the whole 'reaching out' thing is supposed to confuse us and throw us off the track. Because I'm sure as Jesus walked on water confused. I mean, Christ, he was _kissing_ Omi." Resentfully muttered, the aside won him an amused snort from the much-entertained blond. Who didn't need to know that Ken had been on the receiving end of some attention himself. He'd be lucky if he didn't wind up with whiplash from trying to follow the sudden changes in mood and behavior.

"Ah, ha." Grinning, Yohji waggled a finger in his face. "You're only seeing the tip of the Fujimiya iceberg. Once I got past the 'call me Aya' part, I did some research of my own, back when he first started with us. Did you know he was only eighteen when he was orphaned? And, coming from a rich family, I'll bet he had no idea how to deal with the world we live in. Aya was the proverbial Babe in the Woods when it came to getting revenge. Add to that the fact that I don't think he has a clue how to handle grief, or guilt, and voila, a bastard is born."

"Orphaned? You mean, we actually have something in common?" Thoroughly confused, the brunet latched on to the one word that made any sense. It figured that Yohji had given in to his curiosity and checked up on the swordsman when he had been dumped on Weiss. Just because Omi declared that he would respect the redhead's privacy, and wait for him to open up, didn't mean that the other blond on the team had. But even though Ken learned that Aya's little sister was at the center of nearly everything that the man did or thought, it hadn't occurred to him to wonder about his family or his background. Maybe that was why he had been so horrified when the American, Benson, had accosted Aya in the hotel's restroom all those weeks ago? Benson had known something about Aya that he, a teammate, hadn't taken the time to learn...

Thoughts derailed, he warily eyed the chortling man. Okay, fine. So it had _finally_ dawned on him that murdered parents equated with being an orphan. Yohji could just bite him. The term to Ken's mind had always gone with his own situation of being family-less, of living in an institution for as long as he could remember, and not with the way Aya's had been cut down in front of his eyes. _That_ was about hatred, and the need for revenge, not about sleeping in a dormitory, and making do with second hand clothes, and second hand affection, doled out by the Sisters who had too many kids and never enough time or money. Growing defensive, Ken resisted the urge to deck his teammate. It never failed to irritate him that Yohji found nearly everything that he did to be funny. To be fair, the playboy acted that way toward everyone, even Aya who generally had no sense of humor and less patience. Then it struck him; this was subtly different. The ever-present sunglasses and pack of cigarettes lay abandoned on the tiny nightstand beside the bed; within reach, but untouched. And the expression in Yohji's warm eyes was anxious, worried about not only Aya, but... about him. About Ken.

He wanted to scramble off the bed, run – do not walk – to the nearest wall, and beat his own brains out. There had been that brief moment during their escape from the last crazed-ninja-whatever attack, when Yohji had twisted around in his seat in the car and practically homed in on his teammate's misery, and Ken had known then that this was coming. And if Omi was annoying when he decided to obsess about whatever was bothering his companions, it was nothing on Yohji when the older man was on a tear.

Of course, if he complained, it would just be perceived as further proof that he needed to be mothered.

Yohji's flexible spine slouched even lower against the headboard if that was possible, and he drew up one knee, allowing his forearm to dangle across it. The gaze he fixed on the younger man was too perceptive as he added, "Yeah, Aya's an orphan, too. All he's got left is a sister he doesn't talk to, and us. He needs you, Kenken, and besides, it would be good for you, too. You don't need to be alone any more than he does."

"Drop it, Kudoh." Ken growled warningly. He could feel the heat of a blush creeping up from his neck, and wanted out of the conversation before the idiot started teasing for real. It wasn't fair that his skin, like his mouth, tended to react first and think later. Held at bay, he drew his legs up, wrapping his arms around his jeans clad knees. It figured that he had come in hoping to be distracted from thoughts of the slim redhead, and here they were being shoved in his face. Ken didn't see how the kind of relationship he was capable of would do him _or_ Aya any good. "I didn't come in here to talk to you about me, anyhow. I wanted to ask how you figure you and Omi can get anywhere with the cops."

"Easy. I walk in their front door, with Omi. The kid is someone I picked up in Tanagawa, and I'm looking for the investigator in charge of that case, to see if I've got someone he might be interested in. There are people at the station who are going to remember me, from before. That'll give me some creditability. If anyone asks about my supposed death, I'll just wink, and say that the reports were a bit exaggerated. If they persist, I'll hint that I was in a witness protection program, and had to lay low for a while. It's not too far from the truth, and it dove-tails with the cover story Kritiker has had in place for just that eventuality."

Startled, Ken blinked. He could actually see how it might work. Once Yohji had the right police detective in his sights, he would exercise that golden tongue of his, and wiggle his way into the guy's confidences. With a little luck, the lead officer would take him back to his office, or to whatever conference room they were handling their investigation from. Even if the cop didn't share information, the Weiss Hunters would end up knowing where to search if they had to come back, and whose shoulder to look over for the future. As plans went, it was so simple that it was brilliant.

He wondered when he would quit being surprised that Yohji had a brain in there, sharing space with his over-developed libido.

A mellow Yohji was actually a fairly pleasant one. Given that he had neither insulted nor pursued teasing Ken, making him feel defensive and oddly inadequate, the lazily relaxed man was pretty good company. When things were like this, when they were talking about the logistics of a mission, it wasn't too awful being stuck around him. Relaxing, Ken settled into a more comfortable pose, legs stretched out in front, his weight leaned back onto the hands that he planted on the mattress behind him. His oldest and rattiest jersey, maroon with the Kashima Antlers' emblem of a stag's head emblazoned across the front, made him feel a little more confident, too. Especially when Yohji was wearing a scruffy blue tee-shirt that had to be at least as old, and lounging on his rumpled bed in blue jeans with worn out knees, and bare feet.

"So, Ken... Haven't you ever wondered about our team? I mean, really thought about who we are, and how we ended up together?"

"We..." Caught by surprise at the change of topic, Ken paused. The strangeness of the query struck him. He had been about to say that they were all Weiss because of the desire for vengeance, or justice, or some such, but that didn't seem to be exactly what Yohji was after. "I don't know." he admitted. "What are you getting at?"

"Well... We know that Kritiker runs other units, even though, as Omi likes to point out, they try to keep us as separate as possible. Hasn't it ever struck you as weird that _our_ team is all guys? And another thing, Omi is gay. You and I are at least nominally bi. Lord only knows what Aya is, but judging by what's been going on, he isn't totally opposed to things. Do you have any idea what the odds are on four guys with tastes like ours ending up together? You'd think that there would be _one_ normal, plain vanilla type in the bunch."

"But..." The athlete struggled for a moment, before blurting out, "But you prefer women. You said so yourself. And, Omi isn't necessarily _gay_ just because he's got a crush on Aya. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if _Schwartz_ had a crush on him. The guy is gorgeous-" Scowling dangerously, Ken cut off the rest of _that_ thought. Yohji was giving off that idiotic, braying laugh that said that his funny-bone had just been mangled in a major way, and he was in danger of losing control completely.

"Oh, please!" the blond sputtered. He swiped at the tears that were running freely down his cheeks, manfully suppressing the urge to howl again. "Omi is so gay. Have you ever watched him with the girls when they mob the shop? He's more terrified of them than he is of an entire squad of yakuza enforcers. And no, I don't think that it was working in the flower shop that traumatized his burgeoning sexuality and turned him. Sex doesn't work that way. Although, the way some of those girls act, it would make any sane man want to take a vow of chastity at the nearest Buddhist monastery."

In spite of himself, Ken felt an answering grin tug at his mouth. Yohji was right; Omi was absolutely petrified of being cornered by the after-school fan club. They were a force to be reckoned with, and he could imagine even the biggest and beefiest enforcers turning pale and running from them. Maybe that was the real reason Aya had never succumbed to the temptation to go fetch his katana and have at? Maybe Mr. 'Die, Takatori' was leery of tangling with a bunch of teenagers? "You're nuts, Kudoh." he answered easily. "Why would Kritiker go to the trouble of assembling a team like that?"

"Hmm? Why do you think, Kenken?" Yohji's smile grew broader, more self-satisfied, as he leaned back, and the light in his green eyes turned devilish.

"Nah, you can't mean we were set up...? Oh, that's just so... _wrong_!" The younger Hunter was off the bed, pacing across the smooth plank floor and back in rapid, agitated strides. The track ended with him standing over the reclining man, glaring down at him. "You cannot seriously be thinking that Kritiker _wanted_ us to get involved with each other!" he shouted.

"Yes, I can." replied Yohji imperturbably. "If it were done right, it would have melded us into an incredibly tight unit. Probably into the best that there is. Didn't you ever wonder why Schwartz beat us all the time? Well, I figure it wasn't just their super-powers, I think it had just as much to do with the fact that they were all mentally linked on some level. They aren't nice people, but they're a tighter team than we are. Kritiker just underestimated how broken we are... they probably figured it would make us look for comfort in each other, instead of making each of us more and more alienated."

Ken knew that his brown eyes were popped open wide in disbelief as he whispered, "Until Aya didn't come home..."

"Right. Instead, Aya got taken, and something changed him. Now he needs us, and it's changing how we all interact. I mean, look at us, Kenken. Would we have been having this conversation a month ago? How about six months ago, when we first finished up that mess with Esset wanting to use Aya-chan? Or, before that, when that ass-wipe Taketori tried his little take over? You and I have eaten together, worked together, _killed_ together, but we've had more serious conversations in the past twenty-four hours than we have in three years. And all roads point back to Aya being the cause." Yohji straightened up, a grim clench to his jaw.

This was no joke; the senior Hunter was deadly earnest, and it sent a prickle of apprehension skating down Ken's spine. He didn't like the thought of having been set up to fall for his teammates, but Yohji was right; the odds were definitely _not_ in favor of the four of them winding up together by chance. Especially not when he considered the extensive psych profiles that their employers had on each of them. Aya had gotten bounced through at least one other team, as they searched for a place that he fit, and now Manx was giving thought to moving him again.

Just when he was beginning to belong.

Ken jerked as if he had been stung by a wasp. Manx considered the redhead to be a liability, a threat to their group's safety. She had said so, back during their debriefing from the hospital rescue. That the two subsequent attacks on them had failed wouldn't mean a thing to her – it all came down to the cold, hard fact that they had even happened. First Aya hadn't bonded with them properly, and now he had led trouble Weiss' way. Just solving the mystery as to why Aya had been abducted wouldn't be enough; they had to prove to their handler that the damaged man was worth more if he was with them, than if they were split up. Much though he hated doing what Kritiker and their team of tame psychologists wanted, Ken knew that letting go of their friend would be worse.

A light touch to Ken's shaking fists brought him back to himself. From the look of things, Yohji had been talking to him or otherwise trying to get his attention for several minutes. Blatant concern shadowed the seated man's eyes as he gazed up at his brunet teammate. "What are you thinking?" he asked softly.

"Manx. She said they were going to move him. We can't let them. We just can't."

* * *

It had sounded easy to carry out his part of the mission following that heart to heart with Yohji, but now that Ken was face to face with Aya, on his own, without Yohji's support to fall back on, it was proving to be damned hard. How was he supposed to know how to 'seduce' the man, or whatever the hell it was that his partners expected, anyway? 

He had blundered in a like a charging water buffalo, ready with all kinds of stupid declarations about trust and being there for Aya, only to find his quarry propped up on pillows with a sleeping boy snug in his embrace. Omi's golden head was pillowed on the man's chest, hair gleaming brighter than a new-minted coin in the shaft of late-morning light that seeped in around the window shades, with Aya's chin resting lightly on top. Too vivid, baleful eyes met Ken's unblinkingly, and except for being the wrong color, they could have belonged to a tigress with her cub.

Except, Omi wasn't a kid anymore.

The whole predator/prey analogy thankfully fell apart when Aya shifted his attention to the youngest Hunter, murmuring something too soft for Ken to catch into Omi's ear. The teenager stirred reluctantly, his shoulders bunching up as he physically resisted waking, grinding his face against Aya's shirt-front between his fisted hands before straightening. His lids were closed sleepily over dark blue, leaving only slits of color to balance the soft pink of his lips and tongue as he yawned a little. White, white fingers curved around his chin, starkly visible against the fair skin, tilting Omi's head a bit to the side so that Aya could lean down into him. Without the length that that red hair used to have to act as a veil, the slow thoroughness of their kiss didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination.

They finally drew apart, its recipient curled lazily within the circle of Aya's arms. By way of encouragement, the solemn man rubbed his chin across the top of his companion's bright hair. "Omi. I said 'wake up.' It's time for you to get up. Ken is here, and he's wearing his mission face." Aya's level tone was implacable, but somehow the smaller assassin managed to ignore it, transferring his hold to his companion's collar while straining upward to find his mouth again.

That was the point at which Ken's concentration went out the window.

His skin felt too tight, and too hot across his cheekbones, a sure sign that his face had to be blazing a shade at least as dark as Aya's hair. It didn't help that his heart conveniently forgot how to beat for the duration, either. The abused organ gave a lurch and resumed its appointed task of pumping blood when Omi finally drew back, dazed and a bit flustered as he belatedly registered Ken's presence.

He rubbed at his mouth.

If he'd had any sense of self-preservation at all, Ken realized bitterly, he'd never have come through the door in the first place. Then he wouldn't have had to get trapped into watching, because Yohji was wrong: Aya didn't need _him_. Not when he had the petit assassin willing and available.

And the best and worst part was that he couldn't even fault Omi for seizing the opportunity, not when it was obvious to the most casual of glances that this was the happiest the teenager had been in months.

Out of all of them, Omi had never allowed himself the luxury of truly grieving for the sister he had barely known, or the brothers he had discovered only to lose by his own choice. The memory of his father's betrayal might have been buried deep, but its effects had colored his waking life none the less. It had never been a secret that the child in their midst had transferred his considerable capacity to lavish affection onto his surrogate family of Weiss, nor had it exactly been a surprise that he needed more in return than what they had given him. Omi never complained. He just continued on with researching and planning missions, with patching up their bodies, and mediating the inevitable arguments. Aya might not be the love of his life, but just as the moment, he was what the fair youth needed, both to receive, and to give, for his own healing. Numbly, Ken turned and walked out.

The light patter of hurried footsteps warned him that he wasn't alone.

Omi caught up to him at the top of the stairs, snagging his elbow to keep him from leaving. "Ken, please wait. I need to explain."

Sighing, the brunet paused. It wasn't as if he had a choice. "You don't have to tell me about Aya. It's not like it's any of my business."

"He turned me down."

"Huh?" Completely flummoxed, Ken spun around to stare at his best friend, who was not only grinning from ear to ear, but coloring a darker shade of pink than he had moments earlier upon registering that he was being observed. But embarrassed or not, Omi was genuinely amused by the reaction he had gotten. So much so that he couldn't resist teasing a bit.

"Sex, Ken-kun. I had Aya flat on his back with his shirt off, and man, oh man, is he ever _hot_." At Ken's involuntary _meep!_ of shock, the deviltry lurking beneath the sly smile broke through and the slight teen began to laugh. Sputtering, he continued, "That's when he hugged me – _me!_ – and told me that sex is a lousy substitute for love. So... we stopped."

Aggrieved, Ken muttered, "_That_ so did not look like 'stopping' to me. It looked like you were only a couple of stops shy of that train getting to the station, if you know what I mean."

Omi giggled. "Is this where I say that it's not the destination, but the journey that counts?"

"OMI!!"

His assassin's reflexes let him dodge the swat aimed at the back of his skull. Which was a good thing because the outraged athlete hadn't pulled the blow. They never did when they sparred together; neither could afford the split-second of indecision that deciding whether or not to go full out would mean in a real fight when their lives would depend on their skills. Ken couldn't suppress the relief that he felt, no matter how hard he scowled, nor could he stop himself from asking just one more question. "So... You've decided not to have sex, but necking is okay?"

"Yeah, for now. And besides, I like the kissing part. I don't mind taking things slow, if it's this good."

"Oh." There had been no hesitation or second-guessing in Omi's reply. Which wasn't so strange if one considered the steel and determination that he approached a mission with. The slightly-built blond wasn't the team's tactician because of his size or physical presence, but because of his focus and drive. If he _had_ made up his mind to make Aya his first, Ken would hardly have been surprised if he succeeded. Then Omi jolted him out of his ruminations by bumping him with his hip and tossing carelessly over his shoulder, "Of course, I'd take you, too."

"What?! Hey! Wait up!" For all of about five seconds, Ken was frozen in shock, then he dashed after the smaller Hunter, relying on his grip on the handrails as he dove down the stairs three at a time. Breathless, he demanded, "What the Hell do you mean by _that_?"

Half-turned, Omi stopped so abruptly at the bottom of the stairs that Ken collided with him. The teen's thin, strong arms saved him from making a fool of himself, holding him carefully upright. Warm breath ghosted over Ken's ear as the slender body draped itself against his side. "When I'm ready, I wouldn't mind having you for my first."

An inarticulate _mph?!_ was that Ken managed in response to that revelation. Omi's fingers threaded carefully into his thick hair, gently tugging him down so that dry, warm lips could glide delicately along his jaw before mouthing at the lobe of his ear, sending mingled sparks and shivers dancing across his nerves... raising goose bumps down the length of his arms, and across the outside of his thighs. The low, throaty moan that accompanied the touch of tongue to flesh told Ken that the reaction was hardly one sided.

Just how many 'lessons' had Omi had from Aya, anyway? His embrace was everything that the earlier one had been: sweet, hungry, and intense. But more, as well. With the sensations sliding shivery-warm down Ken's spine, he could just about buy into Yohji's theory that this was meant to be, that Weiss had been intended to take on a bond that close between its members. Ken was having a hard time remembering that his intent had been to safeguard his younger teammate, to protect his best friend from emotional harm as well as physical.

Sunlight streamed in past the mostly drawn living room drapes, gilding the youth's hair with saffron and flax, smooth strands of shade and light. Omi was suddenly indescribably beautiful, fey and ageless rather than cherubic. Somewhere along the way in the past months since losing his family, he had started changing from hyperactive to swiftly precise, and from gangly to slender.

And it would be wrong to take advantage of the implied offer. Better to stand back, waiting to help pick up the inevitable pieces since he doubted that he would completely derail Omi from his chosen course of action. Ken gently disengaged Omi's fingers, lingering a little as the shaggier locks slipped through their combined grasp. "And what about Aya? I'm not stupid, Omi... It's really obvious that you..." The word 'love' came unbidden, but he shoved it aside, instead saying, "...Want him."

"So? You and he aren't mutually exclusive, Ken. More... 'complimentary,' I think. Pieces of the same puzzle, that fit together, and support one another. All of us are like that. I don't feel the same way about you that I do Aya, but it doesn't make it any less right." Omi's husky voice corrected him, drawing their still linked hands up between them to nuzzle at each of Ken's knuckles. Eyes shining, he took a step backwards, adding quietly, "When we get back from the police station, I'd like to finish this conversation. Okay?"

At the brunet's automatic nod, a more normal, sunny grin erupted, and Omi planted a sudden smooch on his cheek before spinning about and darting off to collect Yohji from the kitchen. Stunned, Ken pressed his fingertips to the still humming spot. He didn't know whether to be apprehensive, or expectant at that promise.

* * *

Omi came down wearing what Ken privately thought of as one of Yohji's 'slut' shirts: a sleekly heavy thing of ultra-fine mesh that gleamed like liquid hematite poured over the small Hunter's delicate frame. Where the shirt was next to skin-tight on the taller of the blonds, it hung alluringly off one of Omi's shoulders, its open collar framing the fine lines of the musculature of his throat and the clear curve of his collarbones. He had tucked the hem sloppily into a pair of black cargo shorts that hung off his hips, leaving a wedge of faintly tanned skin and his belly button exposed, and added a pair of black high-top sneakers, and finger-less, black leather gloves. The overall effect was one of fifteen-year-old jail-bait headed for a life sentence tied to someone's bed. Ken choked at the mental image and took a step backwards, barking his shin painfully on the corner of the coffee table. 

Even Yohji looked a bit taken aback.

"Um... if it's too much, I can take it off...?" The teen's husky voice was diffident, uncertain. His agile fingers were just undoing the top button of the few that were actually closed on the shirt when Yohji burst out with a strangled, "No! Keep it on!" Ken found himself nodding emphatically in whole-hearted agreement. An impromptu striptease was the last thing he wanted to see his friend do.

And just where had the kid gotten shiny pink lip-gloss from, anyhow?

"Christ..." Yohji turned away and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the living room's balcony doors. Ken shot him a look of sympathy, for once not envying the senior Hunter that he was the one who was going to be going down into Tokyo to beard the cops in their den. The playboy was going to be in for a hard time when it came to acting natural, and not killing anyone who hit on the tarted-up boy.

The wonderfully clueless, innocent air to Omi as he glanced back and forth between his teammates didn't help, either.

In a way, it was almost too bad that it was all an illusion. Club Riot might be dead and gone, but there were other places catering to the wealthy that would have paid good money for someone with their younger companion's looks. And speaking of looks... Ken bit back a snicker. "Hey, Omi. Can I have a photo of you, before your guys leave?"

"I- I guess so." Confused, wide blue eyes blinked, revealing a shimmer of silver-gray eye shadow on their lids. "What for?"

"I want to email it to Manx and see if she has kittens."

Omi still didn't entirely get it, although he was starting to, to judge by the way his eyes darkened and narrowed. Yohji, on the other hand gave a strangled bark that might have been laughter, and thumped his forehead against the glass. The teen glared at both of them in turn and bit out, "On second thought, no pictures. Come on, Yohji-kun. Let's get going."

Definitely laughter. Yohji's shoulders shook as he dissolved into outright guffaws and staggered weakly over to the couch. "Manx... kittens... Oooh, that's priceless!" he gasped. Outraged, Omi squawked and heaved a pillow at him from the battered chair that he was closest to. The older blond made no effort to ward off the incoming missile; if anything, it made him laugh even harder. Then Omi made the mistake of stamping his foot in frustration, and Ken had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from losing it, too. If the younger Weiss hadn't been worried about mussing their outfits, he would have thrown himself on Yohji and tried to tickle him into submission, which would have meant Ken taking sides with whoever was winning. As it was, a sudden thought occurred to him, turning his smile at his friends to fondness: this was first time since Aya's disappearance that they had engaged in real horseplay.

A faint noise from above caught his attention, and Ken's joy faded. That sound had come from Aya's room. It wasn't as if the redhead had ever participated in the antics of his teammates. God forbid that the rigid man should unbend enough to have _fun_. But the fun couldn't change one essential fact: they had Aya back, but things were no longer the way that they had been. The intervening weeks had changed too much.

Omi was still snarling at the playboy, his voice cracking endearingly on every third word. Yohji had lost his sunglasses over the back of the couch after one particularly violent swipe with a pillow that connected with the top of his head, and he was making no effort to rescue the glasses or to stop the assault. If anything, he was egging the outraged blond on with snide comments that seemed to refer to Ken, Omi, and the head-board against the wall incident. With the team's genius on the defensive, he saw no reason not to get a few licks of his own in purely for the sake of revenge. Mildly sickened as his own thoughts got stuck on the one track named Fujimiya Aya, Ken had to turn his back, which meant that he just happened to be staring with unseeing eyes at the staircase when the object of his obsession descended.

Whereas Yohji had dressed to the nines for the mission, from an expensive camel-colored sport coat just a few shades darker than his hair, to a fine gold chain on his off wrist, opposite his watch, Aya had enveloped himself in yet another of his shapeless, over-sized sweaters. This one was a dusty, faded black that leached away what little color his wan features might otherwise have had, leaving him looking ill and exhausted.

Knowing that his teammates were going to Tokyo to try to find out what had happened to him, the very things that he didn't want to talk about, had to be killing him.

The blond pair was too absorbed to notice that they had added to their audience. Omi's rapid-fire insults were losing their eloquence and he was beginning to giggle every time Yohji _meow_-ed and tried to mimic Manx's horrified tones. It wasn't that he wanted to be rude to the closest thing to a mother that he could remember, it was just that the playboy was really on a roll. The shouting and uproar reached new heights, but Ken tuned them out in favor of studying the slender young man who hesitated at the room's margins.

The giddy – for Aya, at least – joy that he had exhibited upon first seeing his partners had nearly faded away. And now that he had turned Omi's advances aside, it seemed that he was closing himself off from more physical outlets too, retreating back into his shell. But the surface of cold fury that had sustained him first through his hunt for the Takatori, and later during his sister's abduction by Esset was missing, leaving what Ken could imagine was melancholy sorrow and regret in his steady, watchful gaze. Unthinkingly drawn, the brunet skirted the furniture grouping and the still-battling blond duo, and approached the silent figure obliquely. Aya noted his presence, flicking him a sharp glance, but otherwise ignoring him.

"Hey... You okay with staying here while they go?" Ken asked. He halted just inside the limits of what Aya regarded as his personal turf, looking up into the pale, frozen face.

"Hmph." Aya grunted. He shrugged slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "It makes no difference. They need to go, to eliminate questions regarding my status as a threat."

"Aya..." Impulsively, he reached out and dropped his hand lightly onto the wool clad shoulder. A stronger, rolling shrug knocked it off, and Aya pointedly turned his back and headed for the kitchen.

How the fuck was Ken supposed to be the one to reach out, when his quarry acted like that?

It was going to have to wait until he could get the rest of his team out of the house, because they didn't need to be heading into a precarious situation with distractions like Aya weighing them down.

A discrete cough behind him alerted Ken to the cessation of noise from his partners. Omi offered a polite, "Excuse me... but can we do the equipment check? Yohji and I need to get going soon."

"Um. Sure, I guess." _Forget the jerk,_ he told himself firmly, allowing Omi to drag him over to the low table.

The collection of equipment they had was eclectic, to say the least. Before Omi could start whining about how he _wished_ Kritiker had issued them gadgets on par with what the swordsman had used on his solo mission to the auction, Yohji picked up a small transmitter/receiver rig from the conglomeration spread out on the surface. Clicking his tongue with annoyance, his mission partner promptly plucked it from his fingers. "No, I told you; that one's not compatible. Here, take this."

Yohji's brows hiked up and he stared with comical concentration at the replacement. "I don't see the difference." he admitted. They looked the same to Ken, too. Omi huffed.

"Look, we're working with things scavenged from the first car, that big Lincoln, from the loft's safe, and my old equipment that I had here at Villa Weiss. It's, like, five different generations of parts. I had enough trouble just getting audio to uplink through the cell phone towers to my laptop. We don't have video at all." As he spoke, his clever fingers disassembled one of the headsets and began rewiring the tiny microphone and a watch battery into a clunky pendant on a heavy chain. Yohji eyed it skeptically, relieved only when the necklace slipped over Omi's head.

The chain was too heavy for his fragile neck, but none of the remaining Weiss dared argue the point. Fiddling alternately with the bugged pendant and his laptop, the team's technician finally nodded to himself, satisfied, and dropped the chromed blob down inside the collar of his shirt. He selected another rig from the mess, and ruthlessly stripped it down to its bare components of microphone, receiver, and battery – all strung together with a couple of thin wires. Distracted, he murmured, "Hold still, Yohji..." as he carefully taped the remnants of an ear bud _behind_ the respectable-looking assassin's ear. "...it's not perfect, but even if you keep playing with your hair, no one will see it back here."

"Hey! I resent that remark!" Yohji protested. "I won't be able to hear Kenken or Aya like this." Omi's hands paused in the act of threading the wires down inside the collar of his partner's shirt, and his tawny brows skated perilously high as he took a careful step backwards. The former P.I.'s expression shifted toward the horrified end of the spectrum. How Omi managed to pull off a tiny, evil smirk as his body settled into a boneless, unnervingly accurate mimicry of Yohji's stance, right down to the way he raked his hair back from his forehead was beyond Ken. But it was patently obvious that even the dumbest cop wouldn't be able to help noticing if the receiver was lodged _in_ his ear. So. Deciding vote placed the bit of electronics under a protective covering of flesh-colored bandage, and behind the fall of long, wavy hair. Yohji shook his head slightly in protest, muttering in a mixture of frustration and worry.

"Oh, it gets better, Yohji-kun." the hacker replied absently. "I can't wear a receiver at all – no place to hide it that they would be sure to miss if they decided to arrest me."

"Wha--!" Ken exclaimed. The smooth-cheeked features briefly appeared older than his real age as Omi pondered how to say what he wanted. Eventually, he gave up, and shrugging said simply, "If Ken-kun or Aya-kun has to order us out of there, it'll probably already be too late."

Oh. Not good. He really didn't like the thought of his teammates, stranded and helpless in the clutches of the cops. Almost certainly aware of Ken's concerns, Omi ignored the brunet until he was finished with setting up the relay to his laptop. "Okay, that's it. We'll use Yohji-kun's cell phone to connect once we're in place. Other than that, everything is ready to go. My computer will record everything the transmitters can pick up. You don't have to do a thing, Ken-kun."

Self-conscious, the athlete rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn't good at projecting maternal concern, like Omi was, without coming across as a raving paranoid, but he figured he had to try. "Um... A- are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, what if it turns out that the big secret is that they know all about us?"

The smaller blond hugged him impulsively, which, given the slinky outfit, provided a whole other set of distractions that Ken could have done without. "It'll be okay." he promised earnestly. "We'll be careful. Right, Yohji?"

"Yeah." the older Hunter came up on Ken's other side, ruffling his dark hair gently. "Nothing's going to happen to us. You just concentrate on your goals, and leave the worrying about the cops to us."

Sighing, Ken pushed aside the sinking feeling in his gut that things just weren't going to be that easy – for either half of the mission.

* * *

Ken's resolve to stay the hell away from moody redheads barely lasted long enough for the blond contingent to make it to the foot of the Villa's drive. 

"Then what did you kiss _me_ for?" he demanded angrily, rounding on the taller Hunter. A frown drew the angular claret-red brows down. The mouth that Ken knew from personal experience could be soft and enticing followed, tightening into a thing line. Aya side-stepped, intent on walking around Ken and out of the kitchen. The furious athlete grabbed at his good wrist, hauling back with all his strength, jerking the taller man around. "No!" he ranted. "You are _not_ giving me the silent treatment like I was some dumb jock. You're staying here until you tell me what's going on in that head of yours!"

"Let go."

"No, dammit. Not till I get some answers."

An exasperated sigh greeted the latest evidence of his obstinacy, making Ken irrationally feel like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. "There is nothing to explain."

"Then why did you kiss _both_ of us?" Insistent, the younger assassin shifted about to where he could look his taller teammate in the face. Aya's remarkable eyes were closed in apparent frustration, but coincidentally preventing Ken from discerning any of the thoughts that flitted behind their mirror hard surface. With an effort, the brunet brought his free hand up, rubbing his thumb carefully over the taut tendons held fast in his grasp. "Come on, Aya..." he whispered. "Tell me why. Why Omi, why me?"

"'Omi' and 'Ken' are mutually exclusive?" The low inquiry was impersonal.

Ken twitched involuntarily, telegraphing his shock to his captive. A faint smirk, gone almost quicker than the younger man could catch, flashed across the perfect features. Aya gently disengaged the hold on his wrist. That the slender swordsman was about to make good his escape galvanized Ken. He blurted, "Hey! Wait! I'm not done talking to you. I need to know - what are you doing with Omi? How can you fool around with him, then tell him that you don't want him. This is nuts!" Ken took a deep breath, forcibly reining in his temper. "This isn't fair to him. We're all he's got."

"Exactly. Do you think that anyone outside of Weiss would understand him? Could even want to try?"

"Of all the lame, half-assed excuses—You're trying to tell me that you're only doing this _for him_? As if! Why can't you just admit that you need someone, too, you stuck-up pain in the ass." shouted Ken. Aya recoiled as if he had been slapped, then his eyes, cold as winter frost, narrowed and he ground out, "Don't try to tell me what **_I_** need. You don't know anything."

"You're the one who said that you'd discovered that being alone was a weakness." Furious, Ken retaliated, stepping up close, into Aya's personal space, fists clenched, daring the older Hunter to stand up to him.

"And where else do you think he'll go? Who is going to accept him, for what he is, if not us?"

For the barest second, understanding illuminated Ken's brain, but then it was lost in a flood of whirling emotion and barely controlled temper. "So, it was all an act? You _don't_ like making out?

"Hardly." That harsh, frustrated note was back in Aya's voice. This time he made it past his shorter partner, stalking into the darkened living room. The sun had vanished into a sulky, lowering sky that promised slow, tedious rain, and very nearly the only light was the glow from the computer's dancing screensaver. Ken slapped the thin white fingers away from the laptop's touch pad, refusing to allow the aggravating man to retreat into electronic limbo.

"Stop it! You've been dancing around whatever it is that's bothering you from the get go." There. He was certifiable. Now the conversation was officially going to Hell in a hand-basket. But at the same time, Ken couldn't bear to see someone that he had worked and lived with for two years running around like a weasel caught fast in a trap. It was only a matter of time before Aya did the human equivalent of chewing his own leg off to escape.

Which explained why the swordsman's eyes narrowed, taking on a gem-like, glittering hardness, and he turned the attack back at the suddenly apprehensive brunet. "And what is _your_ assignment, Ken?" he hissed. "Are you to protect me from those who have been attacking us, or to distract me from what Yohji and Omi are up to?"

It was on the tip of Ken's tongue to bite back with 'Neither. I'm supposed to seduce you and pump you for information,' but he couldn't quite bring himself to say it. Not after he had just watched Aya frenching his best friend, who rather seemed to be enjoying it, by the way. Even if Omi had shifted his sights from the mingled vision of Blood Red and Snow White, to the more earth-bound, ordinary Frog.

Aya didn't wait for him to reply, but continued bitterly, "Or is your _job_ to see that the crazy one stays out of trouble? And if it is, do you think you're up to handling it?"

The hurt beneath the rage grabbed Ken by the chest, freezing his breath in his lungs. It hit him all over again – Aya was only a year, or at most two, older than he was. It would have seemed like an insurmountable number when they were children, but now... So how dared that red-headed demon talk down to _him_? "I am not a kid!" Ken growled, furious. "So don't treat me like one." His earlier thought about two-year-olds, and tantrums, was coming back to bite him in the butt, but dammit, he wasn't a child, and he resented Aya's patronizing manner. The urge to shock the other man out of his complacency was overwhelming. One more push, and that already fragile composure would crack, and the victory that he scented would be his.

Ken's eyes narrowed. There wasn't a thing that he could put his finger on, but what did he have to lose? "You." he snarled. "You're looking for something the only way you know how, aren't you? This has got nothing to do with Omi, or with me. You keep trying things on for size, hoping this one'll fit the hole you've got. Because you're just an empty _loser_." The way that the swordsman's slim, erect figure stiffened told him that he was on the right track, and righteous satisfaction flooded through Ken. Aya probably didn't even know what it was that he was trying so blindly to find, other than that he was hurt somewhere deep inside, and the imperative to bind that wound was irresistible. The compact brunet gave a single sharp nod, and took a step back. "All right then. We'll do this your way, asshole. For now, you just keep your damned secrets. But don't think I'm giving up, Aya. 'Cause I'm not."

Sometimes, it felt really good to be the one holding the moral high ground.

* * *

They didn't speak again until Ken came upstairs to curtly inform him that Yohji and Omi had reached the police station, and finally been referred to the lead investigator on the Tanagawa case. Aya slid him a sideways glance, dark and smoldering with what might have been temper, and might have been hurt. It was impossible to tell which, and Ken hardened his heart against any stray thoughts about offering sympathy. 

Silently, wrapped in his dull black sweater, Aya padded noiselessly across the gloomy room to where their hacker's laptop waited on the scuffed oak coffee table. Tense and irritable, Aya coiled his long legs under him on the couch, leaving Ken to drop down to sit on the floor. Given that Omi had set everything up ahead of time, there was nothing for them to do but to listen, and listening was a tougher assignment than it first seemed.

The quality of the sound pouring from the laptop's miniscule speakers was barely a step up from 'pathetic.' Yohji's annoying drawl was unmistakable, even tinny as it was, but half the time the words were drowned out in the bedlam that was a big, urban police station. Whined complaints and shrieked obscenities rattled off concrete and tile, adding to the deafening cacophony. Ken's best guess had them in the station's main lobby, facing the booking area off to the right, and the 'Information' desk straight ahead. The plan was for the Weiss pair to start there, and only to progress to more underhanded methods when just asking for help failed. At least that was the logic Ken tried to sell himself on. Personally, he was aching to rip something or someone to bloody shreds with bare fists or with his tiger claws; he wasn't picky; either would do.

Although hardly reduced in volume, the quality of the bedlam changed a little, becoming more 'office,' and less riot. Phones ringing replaced some of the shrieks, although the curses were every bit as prevalent. Yohji whistled annoyingly, and Ken could visualize him bouncing around impatiently while they waited.

"Well, as I live and breathe, if it ain't the Tanuki. Coming down in the world, aren't you, old buddy, if they got you cleaning up crap in Tanagawa." Yohji's derisive snort was hardly affectionate under the banter. A pocket of comparative comfort was better than none.

"Kudoh. I thought we had finally gotten rid of you." The bass growl was unpleasantly nasal, and unfriendly. The sound quality changed, becoming someplace smaller, and more private. The pair of assassins had entered a smaller room, maybe an office.

"Nah. I'm like a bad penny. I just keep coming back. Been a while though, since I had anything that would make it worth the hassle of coming downtown to see you." replied the assassin, his honeyed voice slipping dangerously close to poisonous. "but now that I get to see you, Tanuki, I guess maybe it wasn't a wasted trip, after all."

"Cut the crap. And it's 'Tsanakia,' not 'Tanuki,' asshole." The familiar creak of an office chair told the listening audience that the detective had returned to his desk rather than toss their partners bodily out of his office. Aya's expression was unmoved, but Ken felt a knot of subconsciously held tension easing from his shoulders. They were past the first major hurdle. If their luck held out, Tsanakia might voluntarily give them what they wanted, and if not, Omi would know whose desktop PC to hack, and which office in the warren of the police station to B&E. After a lengthy, considering pause, the investigator demanded, "And what could you have that would be worth my time, punk?"

"Him." The older blond dragged Omi front and center, chuckling while the kid cursed and struggled. _Ah, ha! Hook, line, and sinker!_ Ken crowed silently. He pumped his fist, once, into the air, earning himself a sharp glance from his companion before the redhead returned his attention to the broadcast. But that was no surprise; Aya had hardly spoken to him since the other half of Weiss had left to attend to business. Personally, Ken suspected equal parts annoyance that _he_ couldn't go, no amount of hair dye or contacts being enough to disguise his slender height and unbelievable looks, and unacknowledged worry. Aya always took the team back-up thing seriously. Or, at least he did when he wasn't trying to slice and dice a Takatori.

"I thought the Hot Body didn't deal in boys? And I don't _think_ this one is a girl." The insulting smirk in detective's tone came through loud and clear. Ken's hands clenched into fists in his lap, even as he recognized the futility of the gesture. Tsanakia was not only miles away, but a senior investigator, with lots of cops to back him up. Taking him on would be suicidal at best.

There was a familiar pause in Yohji's reply as he lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. Ken took advantage of it to glance up at Aya, whispering, "Is any of this familiar?"

Aya shrugged, arms folded. "No. I don't think I've heard that voice before. It's distinctive. I would remember."

Without missing a beat, Yohji replied with a smirk audible in his laughing voice. "No, no boys." he conceded. "At least not usually. But some of the local scum made, ah, 'special requests' from time to time. Yuki here had a regular who could fix a bit more than parking tickets, if you get my drift." The subtle reminder that the Hot Body's clientele had included members of what passed for the social elite in Tanagawa was not lost on the detective.

"I see... And you came across this tidbit how?"

Ken could practically hear the Hunter's careless shrug. "The usual. Wife looking to see if she had grounds for divorce. Funny thing, though. So long as the hubby was fucking a little rent-boy, she didn't seem to mind so much. I could probably have milked her for another hundred thou Yen if Yuki-kun had been a girl. More, if there had been, say, a little bundle of joy in the oven. But that's all in the past. Her loss is your gain, if you follow me."

A harsh bark of laughter from Tsanakia made the transmission crackle. "Now I know it's really you, Kudoh, back from the dead. No one else ever had your positive way of looking at the world. So, if you're still alive, where's your partner? I can't see Asuka-chan missing out on a chance to put my balls in a vise."

There would have been dead air over the transmitter if it hadn't been for the constant clatter and hum of the busy station in the background. Youji's voice, when he finally did reply, was low and completely devoid of humor. "She didn't make it."

An embarrassed cough broke the silence. Tsanakia's nasal bravado gave way to genuine sympathy for a moment. "Ah, fuck. Sorry to hear that, Kudoh. She was an all right PI. Not like your dumb ass."

"Hey?!" Startled, Yohji chuckled in spite of himself. "All right, you bastard. You scored that time. But about business, you want to talk to this kid, or not?"

"What makes you think that there's anything to talk about? We've done our little bit to brighten up society – the kids at the whorehouse were off the streets for what, three days? The media got their story, the citizens feel like we earned our pay for once, and in the long run, nothing changed."

Yohji's smooth drawl was darkly amused. "Oh, my mistake... For some reason, I had it in my head that you'd be interested in Iida and Mishakawa's out-of-town 'guests.' Guess not. Well, that being the case, see ya around, _Tanuki_."

"Out of--?! Hey, wait just a damned minute, Kudoh!" Tsanakia's outraged shout would have been funny - Ken had felt the same frustration with Yohji more than once – but the game that they were playing was deadly earnest, despite the pun on the police detective's name. Calling him a 'raccoon spirit' probably wasn't the smartest move, but it was certainly in keeping with Yohji's personality. "Get the fuck back in here, you moron."

There was a low chuckle, and Yohji said with quiet satisfaction, "Score, and the game goes to Kudoh. I didn't think they'd assign someone with your rank to a simple prostitution bust, old buddy. Nice to know I was right."

"Asshole." There was a lengthy pause, punctuated by the squeak of an office chair flexing under a considerable bulk, and a weary sigh. "All right. What's this going to cost me? And believe me, your little playmate had better know something good, or it's gonna be a long cold stay with some new friends in the lock-up." Omi gulped audibly at the thinly veiled threat, but Yohji chuckled softly.

"Just a little quid pro quo, Tanuki. Has it ever been more?" Sport coat rustling quietly, he settled into the office's guest chair, and began to spin out their agree-upon cover story, "Well, see, it's like this. Once upon a time, Two Bad Men..."


	10. Chapter 10: Mission

**Reflections: Mission **

_Chapter 10_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

* * *

"... now the Two Bad Men, kinda took advantage of some things at the Dolls' House, but they weren't stupid. They made sure that they kept out of sight of the hookers. But one night, they made a mistake, and while they were bringing in a certain package, the Little Brother Doll saw them." Yohji paused, most likely lighting another of his revolting cigarettes. The moment of silence lifted some of the spell his darkly amused voice had cast, both over Tsanakia's office at the police station, and over his more distant audience at Villa Weiss.

It was the detective who snarled, "What the fuck are you talking about, Kudoh? Would you quit with the fairy tales? This isn't Beatrix fucking Potter – it's an investigation!" The flat of his palm slammed down on his desk, the gunshot crack of noise startling Ken into jumping where he sat on the floor. Although, he could sympathize. It was pretty annoying having to put up with Yohji paraphrasing the Tale of Two Bad Mice. Then again, it could always have been something a lot raunchier. The playboy could be a truly inspired storyteller when he wanted to be. The exasperated cop yelled, "If you can't get to the point, get the hell out!"

"Tsk." The former PI's tone was by contrast calm. "You need to loosen up and play along, Tanuki. The question you should be asking is, 'And what did he see?' "

_What did he see...?_ Confused, Ken blinked at the blank screen of the laptop, imagining that Yohji was getting pretty much the same stares on his end. For a minute there, he had even forgotten that the whole thing was made up, that 'the Little Brother Doll' – Omi - had never been at the Hot Body, had never seen anything. Yohji's artful re-telling of what they knew of Aya's captivity had been woven together with the details they had gleaned from the tapes and from Honey. Omi – or Yuki-chan as he had been introduced – gave a sullen, teenaged grunt, knowing that he was to provide confirmation, to speak as if it had been him, and not Honey who had witnessed the bloody and beaten man being hauled into the brothel. There had to be just enough truth to make the story believable, without giving away the hooker, or their collection of tapes' existence.

Fact, it was supposed to be news that Aya had been a prisoner for three weeks, as that was a detail that the cops had withheld. Fact, neither Iida nor Mishakawa supposedly had knowledge as to the identity of the redhead who had been stashed in their basement, although they had known of his presence. Fact, none of the whores interviewed had admitted to even being aware that there was anyone down there, although a couple had complained over their bosses' prolonged absences. It was as if Aya had been invisible the entire time.

And, fact, Tsanakia knew more than he was letting on. Tsanakia was too cagey to admit to anything concrete, especially not with 'Yuki' in his office, but reading between the blanks was going to be informative, according to Yohji.

But even as the cop obediently said, "Ooo-kay... So what did the kid see? And what do _you_ know about it, Kudoh?" the wily detective was turning aside Yohji's casual play-acting with questions of his own. Ken felt a frisson of apprehension.

There was something wrong with the interview.

If Yohji sensed it, he gave no indication, instead sticking strictly to his smart-ass persona. "Hmm. Now, that's a question Yuki-chan should answer, isn't it?" Yohji laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "Tell him, kid. Tell the nice officer what you saw."

"I-- " Omi's voice trembled, childishly high and uncertain, lacking the attitude he had shown earlier. One of them at least was catching on to the looming disaster. He coughed, and tried again. The plan was to stick to Honey's story as closely as he could, and finally the words poured out. "I saw the two men carrying some guy. He was beat up really bad."

"Did you know the man? The one they had?" Yohji asked.

"Um... No...?" Omi replied hesitantly. This wasn't going exactly according to the script that he and the older Hunter had worked out, but his instinct was to play along. It just would have helped if he had been sure what it was his partner wanted. The police inspector was being unnervingly silent.

"Was he a regular customer?"

"Oh. No. Not that I... knew everybody. I didn't hang out at the club too much. I'm sorry." Even as a street-toughened prostitute, Omi was apologetic and far too polite. Ken snorted quietly, trying not to drown out the laptop's over-worked speakers. Omi would probably be saying 'gomen' for inconveniencing the firing squad the day they were all caught and sentenced for all the Dark Beasts they had put down.

"How did you know?" persistent, his partner nudged at him.

"Oh!" Ken could almost hear the understanding clicking into place. The next sentence tumbled out at Omi's normal break-neck speed. "He had red hair. Dark red, like blood."

"Big deal. Anybody would know that. We put the guy's picture on TV, for Christ's sake." Tsanakia snapped derisively. "If this is all you got, quit wasting my time."

But their younger partner wasn't finished. "He was tall, but thin. Not big-shouldered. He had long red hair. It hung down on either side of his face. And he had been shot, or stabbed, or something. Here, in the shoulder, and in his side, and in his leg."

"How did you...?"

"I told you. I saw them. The two gaijin that are friends of the owners. They were the ones carrying him. They took him down to the basement. I didn't wait to see if they came back up again."

Tsanakia's doubts were apparently gone, and he demanded eagerly, "Describe them."

"One is French, or something, but he talks like a colonial, like he's from Vietnam, or something? The other guy is from one of those East European countries. I don't know... Russian, or Bulgarian, or whatever. He has black hair, slicked back, but he isn't Japanese. I'd never seen them before, but they knew the owner, Mishakawa-san, and he let them in."

"Really?" The police detective's voice went suddenly, dangerously quiet. "And just how did you get close enough to see all this, hm?"

"I... I was supposed to wait in the office, to check in with M-Mishikawa-san. But I got bored... I wasn't supposed to be out wandering around, in case a customer saw me, b-but-- " The small assassin audibly shrank back, relying on his youth and innocent appearance to appease the older cop. It was a gamble, but without knowing precisely what had set off the man's suspicions, it was also the best he could do.

"You're lying." The desk chair creaked ominously in counterpoint to the flat accusation, then heavy footsteps were advancing on Omi. In a swift rustle, Yohji was out of his chair, placing himself between the bulk of the detective and his quarry.

"Easy, big fella." he murmured. "Don't rip the brat. He's telling you the truth. As far as he knows it, anyhow."

"Oh? You'd think so, wouldn't you Kudoh. Well, let me tell you, buddy, your little rent-boy is lying. And how do I know? Simple. It wasn't the basement of that whorehouse that we got the redhead out of. It was Mishakawa's apartment building. So, take your lame stories and get the fuck out of my office. I've got better things to do with my time." The glass-rattling slam of a door put the final punctuation mark onto Tsanakia's bald statement. Yohji swore quietly, but with feeling.

_Not the whorehouse?_ Then again, most of Tanagawa had been built at the same time. If Aya had never seen anything but the basement, what was to say he _hadn't_ been somewhere else? A fragment of the TV broadcast that had started Weiss onto Aya's tracks flashed through Ken's mind: _—found during a recent police raid in Tanagawa— _The authorities had never said exactly where Aya was when they located him. All of them, they had all assumed that it was in the Hot Body, had been misled by the vague details of the press releases. Seated on the floor, Ken twisted around in time to see an expression of complete and utter shock cross Aya's face.

In the poorly lit living room, it was hard to make out the color of Aya's too wide eyes, but it would have been difficult even in the full light of a sunny day, as his pupils expanded, swallowing the lilac and silver of his irises whole. A shuddering exhalation made his whole body convulse, and then he was tripping, nearly falling in his haste to unfold his long legs from the sofa's embrace and bolt. Without thinking, Ken threw himself into the older man's path, his shoulder taking him just at thigh level and tumbling both of them. The aging couch creaked in protest as their combined weight struck. The brunet ducked instinctively, Aya's wild swing ruffling his thick hair.

It had taken all three of them to bring Aya down the last time he had panicked, and this time, Ken was alone.

He was vaguely aware of Yohji and Omi's oblivious voices pouring from the laptop's speakers, but they might as well have been on the moon for all the difference they made. Aya was twisting, trained reflexes kicking in as muscle memory took over for his unreasoning mind. The hard heel of a palm scrapped past Ken's ear; had it connected with his jaw, it might have broken his neck, snapping his head back. Desperate, the shorter athlete retaliated with a sharp punch into his captive's side, aiming for his healing wounds. A harsh grunt told him that he had found his target, and Ken followed it up with a second punch, lower, into Aya's kidneys. Pain made the slender assassin curl reflexively, seeking to protect the injury even as he stabbed stiff fingers toward Ken's vulnerable throat. The only reason the blow failed was that his broken fingers weren't strong enough. But as it was, the metal foundation of the velcro splint tore a ragged furrow across the side of the brunet's neck.

Aya was squirming like an eel, his swordsman's honed reflexes and agility making him next to impossible to hold onto. With a grunt of pain, Ken hooked a leg around the redhead's knees, toppling both of them onto the floor between the couch and end table, sending a small lamp crashing to the floor in a shower of broken glass and electric sparks. A frantic twist on Aya's part made it so that his assailant took the brunt of the impact, and the corner of the table hurt like a son-of-a-bitch when Ken's shoulder struck it on the way down. The abused muscles spasmed, and Ken's numbed fingers lost their grip on Aya's sweater.

He was going to die.

Aya's knee was on his solar plexus, grinding Ken mercilessly into the green shag carpet, A shard of glass was agonizingly sharp in his lower back, a counterpoint to the burn of the scrape on his throat and the blossoming throb of his shoulder. Aya had his left arm cocked back, not about to make the same mistake of striking with his injured hand a second time, and Ken felt a flood of resignation. He was going to die at the hands of a teammate, because he couldn't, just couldn't bring himself to fight back.

The blow didn't come.

Tremors shook the swordsman's thin figure. He drew in a ragged breath, and the shaking became enough to qualify as a full-blown seizure. The poise and grace that normally characterized the slender man shattered as he threw himself backward off of Ken. The coffee table caught him across the shin, sending the laptop skidding perilously close to the far edge. Then he was hurtling toward the drape-cover glass of the balcony doors.

Panicked, Ken floundered. Feeling was returning to his numbed arm, sharp needles stabbing through the abused shoulder joint, but his fingers still refused to cooperate when it came to scrabbling for purchase on the arm of the couch, desperate to pull himself up out of the gap between it and the end table.

Glass shattered explosively. Aya's elbows impacted first, his arms instinctively coming up to protect his lowered head. The drapes billowed wildly, tearing from their track overhead as the man went through where glass had lately been. Ken was on his knees, lunging forward without bothering to rise to his full height.

It was the tangled fabric of the curtains that saved them.

Hobbled and blinded, Aya crashed down onto the deck of the balcony. Had he been thinking, rather than reacting blindly, it wouldn't have mattered, but now, his erratic movements cost him precious seconds. Blood from his torn forearms streaked the white lining of the drapes, nearly black in the graying light. Rain made the wooden porch floor treacherously slippery. He barely made it to his knees before Ken flattened him, driving the sobbing breath from his lungs.

Grimly, the smaller Hunter took advantage of the unexpected advantage and looped a fold of cloth around his opponent's head and torso, twisting it savagely. He wasn't about to stop and analyze _why_ Aya hadn't pressed his advantage – it could be his stupid declaration about killing being wrong that had stayed Abyssinian's killing blow for all he cared. What was important was that he subdue the other assassin, and do it quickly. Glass crackled in the tangle of material, and Ken bit back a curse when a splinter of it found his own hand. Aya was still fighting him, but his movements were increasingly uncoordinated, possibly due to a lack of oxygen, possibly because even the cold-blooded Hunter had limits, and they had been surpassed.

Ken eased up on the stranglehold he had on the fabric around Aya's neck when the body beneath him grew slack with unconsciousness. Shit. He was so not looking forward to explaining this to Omi and Yohji, when they got back. He flipped the drapes off of Aya's head and fumbled for a pulse with his off hand, his still-tingling fingers on his right not being up to the task. He couldn't find the pulse point on the swordsman's carotid, but the shuddering breath the limp figure sucked in was a good enough substitute. Ken sprawled back onto his rump, leaning his back against the logs that made up the house's walls, and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

Okay. Assess the damage. Aya was out cold. Again. Until the ex-soccer player got him back into the house and out of that ridiculous sweater, he wouldn't know exactly how badly he was hurt, but it was likely that the curtains and his clothing had protected him from all but fairly minor lacerations on his way through the window. And Ken knew for a fact that he hadn't punched anything hard enough to seriously injure the man. He, himself, would probably be sporting some outrageously bright colors by morning, once the bruises that he could already feel stiffening his body reached their full potential, but overall he had been lucky. Aya could have killed him.

Ken had to wonder about that. If the swordsman had indeed lost his edge, and not just on some dim level recognized that he was fighting a teammate, then Weiss was screwed. No amount of persuasion was going to be enough to get Kritiker to leave Aya with them. Kritiker wanted Abyssinian, not Fujimiya Aya. He rotated his shoulder experimentally, relieved that not only was it not dislocated, it didn't even feel as if the rotator cuff had torn, or anything. Briefly, he considered lugging the damned redhead up to his bed, and pretending that nothing had happened, but with the shattered evidence all around, it would be impossible to hide their fight.

And just where had Aya thought he was going, when he had plunged at the window? He had to _know_ that it was a substantial drop to the muddy ground below, even assuming he avoided hitting the piled rocks that provided a firm foundation for the projecting balcony. Groaning, the athlete dragged himself up the wall, clutching at the smooth curve of each log in turn. He was getting wet, and it was too damned cold to keep sitting outside in the rain thinking.

Getting Aya to the battered couch essentially used up all of Ken's strength. There was no way that he was going to attempt the staircase to the second floor. Aya would just have to deal with the spine-twisting piece of furniture. There was an old afghan flung carelessly over the back of the chair closest to the cold fireplace. Ken snapped it up, shaking it out over the unconscious man, then turned back to the gapping hole where the sliding door had been.

He was pretty sure that there was a sheet of plywood out in the generator shed, left over from the last time they had smashed a window. That had been a while ago, when they had used the remoteness of the cabin to lure a pack of Dark Beasts out of the city to where they could be safely disposed of. Come to think of it, it had been a while since Michiru had been by the flower shop... Ken was certain that she had never completely understood their role, and had written off their involvement in her rescue as a coincidence, but in a way it was too bad. She and Omi shared a real interest in computers, and had managed to be become friends, and their hacker didn't have so many friends from outside their team that he could afford to lose even one. Ken wrestled the plywood up the back stairs and through the kitchen door. It was so tempting to wait for the other half of his team to get home, but he could already feel the house chilling down. With night approaching, and a cold wind rolling down off the mountains together with the storm front, that was a bad idea. To say nothing of the breach of security that the broken door represented. In fact, the athlete was kind of surprised that they had managed to not take out the thin tracery of wires in the process. Or, bare minimum, not set off the alarms hooked to the sensors that would register tampering with the glass itself. The alarms hadn't given off so much as a peep.

Worry of a different sort coiled in Ken's gut. With Aya out of the action, he was effectively all alone on a mountainside, miles from any witnesses. It was the isolated estate where they had first sought shelter, all over again. Hastily, he leaned the sheet of plywood against the side of the kitchen table, and riffled the silverware drawer for the automatic hidden way in the back. He checked the clip, fished another from the drawer, and slipped the gun inside the waist-band of his jeans, against the small of his back. Maybe it was just paranoia, but Ken was damned certain that Omi had made sure that every safeguard had been activated _before_ he and Yohji had headed for Tokyo. His anxious stride carried him quickly back into the living room.

Peaceful in oblivion, Aya was still on the couch, right where Ken had left him. Rain, and a chilly breeze gusted fitfully in through the open door, but there were lighter patches in the sky where it looked like the clouds were beginning to break up. It was almost April, for Christ's sake, and that meant that it was about time for the weather to shift away from the lowering, cold gray of winter into a more spontaneous, changeable pattern. There was still several hours of daylight left, and if his teammates were heading straight home after the fiasco with the cops, they should be back well before full dark. He could do it. He would do it, would protect his injured friend.

But first, the brunet admitted, he had a duty to warn the team.

Sound was still pouring from the laptop's speakers. Omi and Yohji, of course, had no clue what they had just missed out on. The older blond's familiar, infuriating, _welcome_ drawl said, "Ow. That's it. That's the last time I let you _tape_ anything to me." Omi's answer was lost as Yohji divested himself of the stripped down communications gear, but the older man's reply made Ken choke with the sudden need to have them home. "Yeah, right. You're still under eighteen, kiddo. And besides, I don't need a pity-fuck, I need a hair transplant. How could you _not_ know that you were sticking that damned thing to my scalp?" The teen's laughter rang out bright and clear.

Ken fumbled for the laptop's keyboard. It sounded as if Yohji had ditched the receiver he had worn, but secrecy wasn't important just then. The computer could act as a cell phone just as well. The shrill ring of the phone came out of the laptop's speakers, cutting across the wire man's startled curse.

"Yeah? Kenken, that you?"

It was weird to hear his own voice issue from his mouth, and from the laptop, too, as Yohji put his phone on speaker so that Omi could hear. "Hai... Um. We got a problem."

"What?" That was Omi. The anxiety that flooded from the petit teenager was concrete. Ken sighed and ran a hand backward through his hair. Jesus fucking Christ, but he _hurt_. There was a lump that he had missed during his earlier self-inspection forming on the back of his skull. He wasn't even sure when he had gotten hit there. Sighing again, he spilled out the truth.

"Aya freaked again. Something about the cops not finding him at the Hot Body set him off. I'm guessing it has to do with what ever happened to him a week before he was found. Anyhow, he's out cold again, so that's all over. The bad part is that we broke one of the balcony doors, and no alarms went off. You set 'em, didn't you? Before you left?"

"Y-yes..." Omi's voice was distracted, thoughtful. It was obvious that he wanted to ask if Aya was okay, but professionalism won out. "I never disabled them. Since we couldn't go outside and risk being spotted by any watchers anyhow, there was no point."

"Crap. I feel like a sitting duck. If they know where we are, what are they waiting for?" Ken dropped down to sit on the floor beside the coffee table, struggling to keep his voice down. Not that there was much chance of waking Aya up...

"We don't know for sure that it's enemy action." Yohji's said reasonably. "Maybe something shorted out."

Ken and Omi both snorted their disbelief at the same instant. While it wasn't _impossible_ that some component or other had failed, taking down the house's defenses, it wasn't very likely, either. Their resident techie was a perfectionist, and the more so when it involved protecting his surrogate family. The teenager took the phone away from his partner. "Look, Ken-kun, it _is_ possible. You know how to run the diagnostics program. Get it going while you secure the window. Then take Aya upstairs, just in case. Your room would be a good choice, as you don't have a skylight, and you're not above the balcony, or the porch roof so they would have to work harder to scale the outside wall. We're almost to the drop to switch cars now, so it'll only be about an hour and a half till we're home." Omi's no-nonsense, brisk orders were effective at calming Ken's lingering panic.

"Yeah, I can do that..." Nodding, Ken relaxed. It would be no big deal to take the laptop off the surveillance relay that the younger Weiss had set up, and he _did_ know how to use the diagnostic programs that the hacker had written; they all did. And the suggestion about moving to his room was a good one, too. It was the most defensible, plus it would give him an unobstructed view of the drive that was the only way a vehicle could approach the Villa. With the snow gone, an assault force would have to hike the mucky ground to come at them from above. Assuming that the whole security net woven around Villa Weiss wasn't toast, he would hopefully be forewarned if they tried it. He was a Hunter, and Weiss, dammit. He wasn't going to loose it now, not when he had an injured teammate to protect.

* * *

Much to his surprise, Ken had drifted into a light doze when the slam of a car door jerked him awake. Wedged into a corner between his dresser and the window, he would peer through a crack in the blinds without exposing himself, and he did so, spotting the edge of the rear bumper of a car in their usual spot beside the shed. Automatically, he glanced over at his bedside clock, and was alarmed to note that it had been closer to three hours, than to one and a half since he had spoken to his friends.

On his bed, Aya stirred, rolling first onto his side, wincing, and then sitting up. The normally self-possessed redhead was rumpled and disoriented, but with returning consciousness, his gaze both sharpened and retreated into wary circumspection. Their eyes met for a long moment, but when Aya opened his mouth to speak, Ken waved him off sharply. "I'm not interested, right now. Omi and Yohji just got back, and they're late." He bolted out of his chair and headed for the stairs, automatically reaching to feel for the gun tucked out of sight under his shirt.

He had no idea if Aya was following, or not. And frankly, he didn't care.

Ken ran into the kitchen to find that the back door was standing wide open, and Yohji leaning crookedly against the front of the stove, fumbling in the next cabinet over for a dish towel. His other hand was pressed so hard against his side that his finger joints showed white. His beautiful sports coat was stained red. Ken's heart spasmed.

"What the fuck happened, Yohji? And where's Omi?!"

The older blond staggered, righting himself with a hand on the corner of the kitchen table. It left a bloody print. "Out in the car. He's okay – just sleeping it off. We... we got hit as we were switching cars at the parking garage..."

Ken didn't bother to wait to hear the rest, shoving roughly past the taller man as he rushed out the kitchen door.

A black Datsun four-door was parked askew in the sheltered nook between the generator shed and the back porch, its driver side door not quite latched right. Grim faced, Ken ignored that, skirting around the hood to the passenger side and wrenching open Omi's door. Groggy blue eyes, nearly black with the degree of their pupil's dilation, blinked up at him as the slim youth sagged out the open door. If he hadn't ended up braced against Ken's stomach, he would have tumbled to the ground. Recognition brought a particularly ditzy grin to his lips. "Oh, Ken-kun... it's you. We home yet?"

They had been hit at the drop. Fuck. Ken grabbed the slight blond and shook him roughly. "Were you followed?"

"N... no. I'm sure. Yohji was careful. That's why we're kinda late..." His voice trailed off into a yawn.

"Shit, Omi. What are you on?" Grunting, the athlete grasped him by the upper arms and hauled him erect. The slim blond swayed, then drooped as his knees buckled and Ken's strength was all that kept him from falling to the ground.

"Um, pretty basic sedative, I think." he mumbled, gesturing vaguely back into the car's interior. "I saved the dart to analyze later, but I think I recognized the markings. It's meant to be fired from a gun... I've read about game wardens using these in the parks when they have to relocate animals that are interacting with humans too much..."

Ken gave up trying to prop the slight figure against the side of the car while he reached for the syringe dart on the dash. The damned thing could stay in the car. It wasn't as if he knew how to do whatever voodoo it was that their tech had in mind, anyway. Skeptical, he eyed his friend. "Uh, never mind. Do you think you can walk?"

"I don't feel too good, Ken-kun." Omi pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, alternating between nauseous pallor and an embarrassed blush. Growling, the brunet hauled him unceremoniously over to a patch of winter-killed grass and held him up as he hurled what little food he had in his system over the bleached yellow blades. "Ew..." the teen moaned, shivering. "I hate doing that."

Ken sighed and rubbed the narrow back patiently. The reaction was par for Omi, unfortunately. Built small in general, they had had to take the youngest Weiss to an orthodontist to have a couple of teeth removed to make room for his adult set, and Ken had sat with him to make sure that he didn't say anything compromising under the anesthesia. Of course, the kid hadn't let slip word one about their alternate life-style, but he had thrown up spectacularly all over his friend's lap. At least this time, it was the straggle of dead grass that got the benefits. Omi retched again, and spat.

"Better?" the brunet asked gently.

"Yeah. A bit car-sick, too. The way Yohji-kun drives, I should know better than to fall asleep." Omi sounded stronger, more like himself, and managed to stand up straight under his own power. Ken gave a guilty start.

"He was bleeding."

"How bad?" Still half braced against the solid mass of Ken's chest, the smaller youth peered up over his shoulder anxiously.

"Don't know. I ditched and came looking for you."

"Oh..." Omi moaned, and shivered convulsively, the movement sending distracting ripples of light down the silver mesh shirt that he wore. A chilly gust rolled down the mountainside, bearing with it the clammy damp of melting snow and spring mud. Half-frozen, he chaffed at his arms, warding off goose bumps as he added, "Kannon be merciful, but I _hate_ being sick!" in a childish whine.

His friend snickered. "Geez, Omi. So where's your coat?" Ken wrapped his arms roughly around the slight figure, struggling against the urge to make any additional comments as his younger partner cursed under his breath, half snuggling back against him, and half fighting to stand on his own. Omi lost the battle and hung on his arm, retching again, spattering the dead grass with thin bile.

"Trunk. Car. Yohji... made me... take it off. Got... sick on it." he wheezed.

"Poor Yohji." Ken remarked, stroking the fine, fair hair back from the youth's forehead and cradling the feverish bare skin against his palm. Omi relaxed, leaning into the support. The patch of thin, late afternoon sunlight that they stood in was marginally warmer than the open air, but still not enough make up for the see-through shirt and knee-length black shorts that the skinny teen wore. With no insulation and sick to his stomach, he was at risk of hypothermia, but Ken was reluctant to drag him into the house until the worst was over. It would only embarrass everybody.

Although, if Omi had already tossed his cookies in front of the wire man, it was kind of a moot point.

"Yeah." Against his will, the small blond giggled. "He turned green. I thought he was going to lose it, too. Considering I was in no shape to drive, putting my coat in the trunk was the least I could do." His shivers were diminishing, the worst of the bout over with, but Omi made no effort to free himself.

"Um, I was just, you know, wondering..." Ken began hesitantly, but then his voice died away. His armful made a tired, interrogatory noise, encouraging him to continue. "I, ah, wondered why tranquilizers always knock you for a loop?"

"Dunno... Kritiker's doctors say it's psychosomatic. Of course, now I'm starting to wonder if it might have been a memory of when I was kidnapped... They kept me drugged a lot, and I was so scared, and helpless. It could be that my body remembered, even when my brain forgot."

"Hmm." Without thinking, Ken shifted to better block the freshening breeze. What Omi had said made sense. They had sat up together, one long, terrible night not long after Takatori Reiji's death, and the youngest assassin, trembling and sick, had told the older boy everything that he had learned, recalled, or surmised about his abduction. Personally, it made Ken glad that the bastard was dead, and his older sons gone with him, even as his best friend had broken down and cried from the grief and loss – emotions that were probably more caused by the demise of the teenager's dreams than any physical loss. In that light, it made sense that there would be other, more subtle consequences.

Omi's thoughts had moved in parallel with his, and then jumped ahead. He rubbed a hand tentatively over Ken's forearm where it was locked around his waist. "Ne... Ken? About Aya..."

The way he flinched was automatic, and unfortunately not something that Ken could conceal, in close contact as they were. The petit blond sighed, plainly exasperated. Hastily, the athlete jumped in before his friend could say anything that he didn't need to know about _that_ situation. "Look, what's going on between you two is none of my business, okay?"

"Ken, shut up. I said we'd continue the conversation when I got back, and I'm back. So, deal." At the unexpected steel in the soft alto voice, Ken clamped his jaw shut. Omi gave another exasperated sigh, and turned around in the circle of his arms to stare up at him. There were only a couple of inches in difference between their heights, but so close together, it was hard to ignore. Dark blue eyes gentled as Omi searched for signs of criticism, and found none. He whispered, "I know this makes you uncomfortable, but it isn't going to go away."

"I know." miserable, Ken agreed. "But I hate it that Aya led you on, and then dumped you. Even if he is freaking out every time we turn around."

"Dumped me? Oh. He didn't. At least, not exactly. We talked a lot, about what I wanted. And what it came down to is that even if the sex would be good, it would be even better if it was with someone I loved. So I decided to wait." His delivery was matter-of-fact, but Ken _urked!_ as he distantly noted that sly amusement crinkled the outer corners of the entirely too-smug hacker's eyes. Then Omi's mouth quirked up as well, tilting the laughing eyes further as he lost the fight to hold in his chuckles. The chilly metallic fabric of his shirt whispered across the back of Ken's neck, raising goose bumps, as slender arms twined up and around.

"Omi!"

"Relax. It's okay." The smaller blond leaned his face into the juncture of Ken's throat and shoulder. His words were muffled. "It'll be a while before I do anything. I've wanted people to care about me for such a long time, but it goes both ways. **_I_** need to learn how to open up, too. I'm not ready for a commitment. Not yet, anyhow." Mute, Ken nodded and tightened his own grasp around the trim form.

And he did understand, too. While Omi was in many ways the most giving and emotional of the Weiss Hunters, he carried his share of sorrow and darkness, tucked away deep inside where the vulnerability could be shielded from the outside world. Manx and Persia had cared about the kid while he was growing up, but it was a distant, casual kind of thing, depending on time and availability. Before that, the reports they had gotten their hands on had described a home life of wealth and privilege, complete with a mother who committed suicide, and father and brothers too busy with their own concerns to make time for a lonely little boy. And then there was the whole kidnapped-tortured-abandoned business. It was no big surprise that Omi had trouble taking the final step to trust and open his heart all the way. Ken felt a surge of warmth toward the young man pressed against him, and carefully kissed the teen's temple. "It's okay. This is good too, right?"

"Yes, it is." surprised, Omi laughed against the side of his neck. "Best friends?"

"Best friends." the brunet answered solemnly. "Now, if you're done abusing the weeds, can we go inside? We're either gonna freeze out here, or Yohji is gonna come looking."

Omi shuddered theatrically. "Ew. I _like_ Yohji-kun. A lot. But I can do without having to explain some things."

"Okay. How about _Aya_ comes out after us?"

"Ack! NO. We are _not_ going to think about that." Suddenly motivated, Omi squirmed, ducking out from under Ken's arm and dashing for the back of the Villa. Laughing, Ken followed.

* * *

"Eat it."

"Ayyyyaaa... Come on. Just one-- "

"Yohji. No. You've lost a lot of blood. Now eat before I force you."

Astonished, Ken and Omi pulled up short just inside the Villa's back door and stared. Except for a couple of scratches, it was as if Aya had never fought a losing battle with Ken and a plate glass window. If anything, he seemed to have reverted to a calmer, more pleasant incarnation. Yohji, shirtless, was sitting on the counter, his long legs swinging, while Aya methodically cleaned an ugly gash that stretched diagonally down across the blond's ribs. An open bottle of juice and a plate of cold left-overs sat on the counter between rolls of gauze and the first aid box. But the really weird note was the pack of cigarettes jammed haphazardly in the back pocket of the swordsman's jeans.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Yohji glanced up and grinned. He waved over Aya's head, then winced when the swordsman prodded his wound with one slim forefinger. "Ah, bastard! Where's your bed side manner?"

The redhead snorted and awkwardly switched the tweezers to his splinted hand. "Hold still. There's a piece of cloth in there."

"Yeow! You never use enough of the local. I want Omi to do this." the senior Hunter whined petulantly. His spread hand hovered over Aya's shoulder indecisively, but he didn't dare interfere.

"Hn." A hint of a smile ghosted across Aya's pale face; then he bent his head to better see his task. A shred of clotted red came free, lifted carefully by the tweezers. More of the same crimson streaked across the back of his knuckles, and his fingers seemed dipped in it. The instrument and its prize clattered onto a plate and Aya fumbled absently for a sterile pad, still intent on the bloody mess scoring the other man's side. Yohji rolled his eyes and snaked a leanly muscular arm past the preoccupied redhead, and handed him the pads and a brown plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"You're hopeless. Omittchi does a better job." he groused.

"So refuse to pay the bill." Aya retorted. Ignoring the proffered bottle, he reached instead for a shallow basin of faintly steaming water. He slopped a liberal amount of it over the wound, sending a flood of pink-tinted fluid down into the waist-band of Yohji's slacks. Nor did he pay attention to the sputtered protests that followed that action.

Curiosity engaged, the team's medic abandoned Ken in favor of checking on the patient. Omi picked up a discarded dish towel and went to work helping to mop up the excess wet. "So, what are you using?" he asked politely.

Aya spared him a glance. "Provodone iodine in warm water."

"Good choice." the younger Weiss said approvingly. "Isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide are bad for something like this; they kill too much of the surface tissue and slow healing. Although... this does seem a little more 'hot' than 'warm.' "

"Hn. Someone complained the first batch was too cold." Aya replied dryly. The scowl that he leveled at the injured man lacked its usual bite, but Yohji still flushed, the rosy color flooding down his smooth chest.

"Well, it was." he complained sulkily, folding his arms. He glared at the far bank of kitchen cabinets, refusing to look at his companions. Omi shook his head and sighed, "Yohji-kun. Don't be like that."

Aya was more than willing to let the petit teen take over the actual bandaging, stepping back from the counter to take a chair at the table. At the weary slump of the swordsman's shoulders, Ken overcame his reluctance and joined him, taking the chair on the far side. But once there, the brunet hadn't a clue what to say, or how to begin a conversation. He really wanted to ask if Aya had an evil twin, because seriously, that goofy theory was once again gaining popularity in his mind. But then Aya glanced up at him and, unable to meet Ken's eyes, his hurting gaze promptly fell to the floor.

Omi's nimble fingers deftly finished cleaning and drying the wound before applying a clean pad of gauze and a liberal number of strips of tape. Smoothing down the last of them, he added warningly, "No exertion, Yohji-kun. We wouldn't want to set your recovery back."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." At the mixture of fond exasperation in the teenager's glare, the former PI managed to summon one of his trademark smirks. "Hey, don't be that way, Omittchi. It's not like there are any babes out here to tempt me to be bad. Unless you want the position. You'd look really cute in a dress."

The youth's expression turned to a glower. "Ha, ha. Dream on. _You_ need to go lie down. **_I_** need to see if Ken-kun found anything out when he ran the diagnostics for me. Come on, Ken-kun."

"Hmm?" Roused out of his stupor, Ken dragged himself up from the table, and away from his bemused contemplation of Fujimiya Aya, pain in the ass extraordinaire. Behind him, as he followed Omi into the other room, he could hear Aya wearily chivying the protesting playboy into agreeing to first eat, and then to go sleep.

"So, what do you think happened?" the astute hacker asked, fingers already flying across the keyboard of his laptop. Ken didn't need to ask if he was referring to the crashed security system; it was obvious that he meant the tall, cranky, red haired problem instead.

"I have no clue." he admitted, scrubbing a hand across his tired eyes. Since the smaller teen had appropriated his usual spot on the floor, the brunet stretched out on the couch.

"I'm starting to think we've underestimated how serious the situation is." Omi replied, his visible attention still fixed on the screens flashing by.

"Hn."

The blond's mouth twitched, then quirked up into a grin. "Have you been taking Aya-lessons, Ken-kun?" he teased.

"Huh? No, I... guess I just don't know what to say." Ken fidgeted briefly, trying to find a comfortable position, and finally settled for flat on his back, staring up at the massive logs that served to support the floor above. "After you and Yohji left, we had a fight, me and Aya. Not a physical one, or anything. Just shouting. But it seems like shouting is the best I can do, and it's not helping him."

"Hmm." After a moment, when nothing further was forthcoming, Ken glanced over at his friend, and snickered.

"Now who's taking lessons?"

"Oh, shut up. I'm thinking." But Omi's tone was amiable, and there was still the faint echo of his earlier smile on his face. Finally, he clicked the last of the windows closed on the laptop and stretched, arms high over his head. "Well, that should get the security system back up, at least."

Worried, Ken rolled back onto his side, demanding, "How much of the house was down, anyway?"

"All the interior cameras, and the sensors on the glass doors." was the prompt reply. "I kind of expected the cameras, since I was using some of the house software to run our gear while we were visiting the cops. This laptop can only handle so much, after all. The windows are a different problem, though. They go straight to the panels in the utility room, and I've had problems with them before. If the weather is stormy, they flex too much in the wind and keep giving me false alarms. It looks as if you two somehow managed to not disturb the magnets that tell if a door has been opened, and the pressure sensor failed on its own."

Omi's open, earnest expression was more persuasive than any number of well reasoned arguments. Ken groaned out loud. "I can't believe it. Yohji was right; it really was just a coincidence."

"Yes, I believe it was." the smaller assassin agreed, nodding. "They do happen. The world is a complicated place, and sometimes, it's hard to figure out what's connected, and what's just random, universal perversity. But the important thing is that you and Aya were never in any real danger. The Villa's security, like any good system, is built around redundancy. The outer parts of the system did _not_ fail, and it is highly unlikely that an enemy could have breached the cabin. In point of fact, I'm relieved that you two managed to not set off any of the booby traps."

Ken felt his blood run cold; he had forgotten that Omi subscribed to the theory that any good electronic system needed a mechanical back up that couldn't be disarmed or defeated by hacking. Yes, it definitely was a good thing that he and Aya hadn't set any of the traps off. Relieved, he put that worry out of his mind, and turned his attention to Omi himself. His best friend still looked pale and a bit green around the gills, although he seemed to have shaken off the other effects of the tranquilizer. "Um, I should get you something to eat. I hope that pig Yohji didn't finish all the left-overs." He rolled off the couch and bounded for the kitchen, trying his damnedest to ignore the smothered giggle from behind him.

Yohji not only had not finished all the left-overs, he had fallen asleep before even really getting started, his head pillowed on his loosely folded arms where he sat at the scrubbed maple table. Ken stopped short, not so much out of any fear that he would wake his older teammate, but rather at the sight of Aya, standing silently at the window above the sink, looking out at the distant lights of the city spread below.

At some point, Aya had rolled up the baggy sleeves of his sweater, cleaned the myriad cuts on his forearms, and stuck band-aides over the worst ones. It would have looked funny at some other time in their lives, but just then, all it did was raise a twist of sadness in Ken's chest. He didn't want to see Aya sporting the visible marks of his attempt to escape, not any more than he wanted to see the hopelessness that was briefly there in the shadowed eyes.

"It's my fault that Yohji and Omi got hurt."

"Excuse me?" Aya's words, when they had come, were so low that Ken didn't think he could have heard them right. Mouth set in an unhappy line, the thin redhead turned around and leaned back against the rim of the sink, his arms folded defensively across his chest.

"I could have told them, that it wasn't the whorehouse. But I didn't. It's my fault they were unable to complete their mission at the police station. I caused them to fail."

"But, how...?" Confused, Ken stopped when he realized that he had taken several steps toward the pale man. He carefully forced himself to unclench his fists, and to release the pent-up tension in his shoulders.

Aya's long fingers brushed across the still vivid bruise on his cheek, the gesture as unconsciously elegant as everything else about him. Ken was reminded of the brief glimpse they had had of a poised, well-dressed young man on Kritiker's recording of the art auction. How could he not have figured out sooner that that was the world that Aya belonged in? The pain in Ken's chest redoubled, and he took another, involuntary step closer. Unaware of the brunet's distress, Aya pressed lightly against his cheekbone, and let his shaking hand fall to his side. "This," he said quietly. "I gather from your conversations that it occurred a week before Weiss took me from the hospital. I got it while trying to escape. I saw enough of the place where I was held, that if I hadn't been so determined to keep matters from you, I could have told you that it was not the whorehouse. But I... didn't want to talk about it. I'm sorry."

TBC.


	11. Chapter 11: Guilt

**Author's Note:**

When I indicated that it would be longer between updates because I no longer had several previously written chapters in reserve, I was expecting to take two weeks between updates, not an entire month. The good news is that chapter 33 of "When Death Comes a' Knocking" is up. If you wish to go read it, it can be found linked to under my favorites list, here on It's under my friend's I.D. because it's her premise, and her original characters that appear in it. I'm just fortunate enough to be allowed to come play.

* * *

**Reflections: Guilt **

_Chapter 11_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_Aya knew...? _Ken felt his mouth open, but nothing came out as he struggled with conflicting impulses. He wanted to comfort the miserable, withdrawn creature facing him across the kitchen, to tell him that it was all okay, that it wasn't his fault. He wanted... to scream, to rage, to strike out at Aya for keeping his damned secrets. And, that last was the impulse that won out.

How could _Aya_, one of their own, have let his partners go into a mission with faulty information?

Then the guilt sucker-punched him, pulling the berserker in him up short by the scruff of the neck. Aya had gone through a life-altering crisis, and his team hadn't been there. _Ken_ hadn't been there. It had been in the back of Ken's mind for a while that he was guilty of the most heinous crime, of leaving a teammate abandoned and alone, without the backup that he needed and deserved.

And here was the proof.

"Oh, God, Aya! I'm so sorry!" Ken couldn't stop to analyze the impassioned shout that burst from him. All he cared about was somehow getting the point across to the handsome man in front of him, that he hadn't meant for _any_ of this to happen. And for the second time in a week, saw Aya's infamous, controlled mask torn away.

The beautiful eyes, Japanese in shape and alien in color, widened in dumb shock. Likewise, Aya's mouth dropped open, but no words came out, and Ken had the pleasure of seeing the self-assured man for once _wanting_ to break the silence, but incapable of it. It gave him a weirdly warm feeling that he was pretty sure that he shouldn't be enjoying, yet at the same time it was a distinct, wicked thrill to know that he – Hidaka Ken – had reduced his opponent to tongue-tied idiocy.

Ken had never been especially good at expressing the thought processes behind the emotional maelstrom, and Weiss' recent past had done nothing to improve his tenuous hold on the ability. But this time, this time would be different. Euphoria filled him, balancing out the sin that he had committed. Fueled by that certainty, words finally tumbled out at breakneck speed. "It's all my fault. I should have known better than to let you keep going out like that. I mean, hell, what are friends for, right? I should've been there to watch your back. Nothing I can say will ever make it up to you, but I swear, from here on out, I'm gonna be there."

"Wha--?" The confusion in the tremulous whisper was complete. Ken strode around the end of the table, ignoring the still dead-to-the-world wire man who slept with his head on his folded arms. Yohji might as well not have been there for all the attention Ken felt like showing him; everything he had was focused on the stunned red head who shrank back against the kitchen counter as if Ken had sprouted horns and a tail.

"The team." Ken replied curtly. Aya was smart; let him figure it out. If, as the others claimed, the reason they were together was that they had been deliberately picked for their compatibility, fine, so be it.

Of course, that presupposed that Aya was inclined to cooperate. Mastering himself, his head jerked up, an angry sneer twisting the mouth that Ken had good reason to know could be wonderfully pliant. "Oh, let me guess." he snapped sarcastically. "Your sense of self-sacrifice demands that you take responsibility for _my_ actions." His posture shifted, returning to hostile self-confidence. Aya was still leaning against the kitchen counter, but now he dropped his hands to rest on the edge to either side of his hips, challenging the shorter athlete to make something of it. Still on a roll, understanding hit Ken. Aya _intended_ to provoke a fight. Was counting on it, in fact. If they were occupied with yelling, then everyone would be distracted – again – from the underlying causes.

"You asshole, are you the only important one here? Your revenge? Your sacrifices? So what if I want to take responsibility? Just how do you think you're going to stop me?" Flushed and exhilarated, Ken shouted back from a distance of mere inches.

Those hard, amethyst eyes narrowed dangerously at the expertly aimed questions. Just as Ken knew they would. Aya with his ingrained, wounded-animal reflexes, fluctuating between bitter disdain and icy hatred was a familiar part of his world. How many times had he watched that same reaction? They had gone toe to toe more than once, even though matters hadn't devolved into a serious physical brawl since that first time, but this was different. This time, Ken _consciously_ chose the intoxicating proximity. His fighter's instincts registered the near-subliminal twitching of muscles beneath the armor of Aya's clothes; the shivering caused by his desperate fight for control.

The prey was mortally injured; blood was on the ground. All he had to do was to close for the kill. Vibrating with tension, Ken whispered, "For once, just shut up." and reached for a handful of the wine-dark hair to pull Aya down for a kiss.

If he had bothered to think the situation out, Ken would have figured on needing something atmospheric, like incense and candles, or shoji slid artfully open to frame a full moon. Not a brutally hard assault in an out-dated, slightly shabby kitchen. The short, chopped-off strands of sleek hair were slithering through his grasp. Automatically, one hand shifted to grasp the nape of his quarry's neck, fingers digging in with the force of someone used to fighting hand-to-hand. The minute flinch of pain under his palm made Ken irrationally want to deliver more, and he bit down savagely on the soft swell of Aya's lower lip.

The harsh, iron-rust bitterness of blood flooded his mouth, at once urging a killing frenzy, and also pulling him back from the precipice.

The shivering had ceased; Aya had surrendered. But life-less acceptance wasn't what Ken wanted, either. Revulsion flooded over him: Aya was continuing to stand there, unresisting as a marble statue, now just letting himself be mauled. Ken jerked back, colliding with one of the kitchen chairs. Its wooden legs slid across the bare floor with a screech that perfectly mirrored the frantic howl locked inside his gut. What the hell did he think he was doing? After all of Yohji's pressing of the man about whether or not he was raped, and Aya's furious, vehement denial that any such thing had happened, here was Ken pushing himself on the teammate in question. Anguished, Ken scrubbed his knuckles across his mouth, mumbling thickly, "Christ, Aya. I didn't mean to-- " Thin fingers with a grip like a steel vise closed on Ken's biceps, and for a split second, he thought he was going to be picked up and slammed into the opposite wall for having the gall to lay a hand on the prickly assassin. But much to his surprise, the harsh grip reeled him in, and held him, immobilized, while Aya's mouth descended with bruising force on Ken's.

Passive observer turned aggressor, Aya was far from shy of taking advantage of his greater height. His lips slanted sideways, leaning down into Ken, as he set the sharp point of a canine into the tender threshold of the younger Hunter's mouth. When Ken responded with a yelp, the bite was transferred to the tip of the brunet's tongue, releasing the iron sweetness of blood into his mouth.

It hurt, but Christ, it felt _good_, too, as the sinuous, wet stroking of a tongue followed the teeth. Omi had kissed with a sweet hunger, but this was on an entirely new plane. It drove a lingering thought that Aya might be faking a response just to get it over with straight out of his head; _no one_, not even the frigid assassin who would do anything for the sake of a mission, could possibly fake kissing with that kind of fervor. But then the capacity to think about it at all ran away; Aya obviously had a thing for ears, and necks, because God help him, the razor sharpness was trying to pierce the lobe of his ear. Ken's head rolled to the side, welcoming the alternating pleasure/pain of quick nips and more leisurely licks and suckling that traced the margin of Ken's ear and moved on to the hollow by his jaw, and the straining tendons of his throat.

"Oh... yeah." he gasped. There wasn't so much as a whimper in reply, not even when the shaking in the athlete's muscular legs got so bad that it was the deceptively frail red haired convalescent who ended up holding _him_ up.

Aya really had dressed for battle, with the maximum amount of armor. Ken's questing fingers found the hem of first a turtleneck beneath the rusty black sweater, and beneath that a tight tee-shirt that his imagination assured him would look every bit as good as it felt, if he could manage to get that far. It didn't seem likely that fingernails over the taut material would do him any good, but to judge by the way Aya shuddered, there were plenty of nerve endings that were alive and well in there.

It was too bad, but that was the moment that one of the swordsman's hands closed on his wrist, putting a stop to his explorations. Thwarted, the brunet's returning capacity for thought finally caught up to the message that his brain and ears had been sending for a while: there were not-so-smothered sounds of chortling coming from somewhere behind his back.

He jerked around so fast that he nearly landed on his ass.

Of course. How in the hell had they managed to forget that the team's resident expert on matters sexual and perverse had been snoring at the kitchen table? Operative words being 'had been.' The bastard was leaned back in a chair, snickering, and looking like the only thing lacking was a set of Olympic-styled score cards.

A reassuring hand settled on Ken's shoulder, and squeezed. Startled, the younger man glanced back at the warm presence at his back. Aya slowly licked his lips, removing the smudge of blood that leant them added color. "This isn't over." he promised. The surfeit darkness sent a shiver down Ken's spine, but it didn't stop him from snapping back, "Damned straight it isn't." His precise wording caught up with his brain when Aya quirked one elegantly thin brow upward, and Ken winced. 'Straight' wasn't exactly the best choice, given the ideas swirling near-out-of-control through his brain.

The watchful twilight gaze flickered past him to the smiling senior assassin, visibly weighing him, determining whether to _kill him now_ or _hold it over his head for later_. Amused, Yohji treated them to a widening smirk, earning him a double-barreled glare from both members of his audience. Decision made, Aya released Ken's shoulder, slipping past him on silent, stocking feet toward the stairs and the haven of his own room. It was more of a 'strategic retreat' than a rout, but it still had the effect of leaving the former soccer player bereft of team support. And, damn it, he _had_ meant what he said about what friends were for; it would have been nice if the anti-social redhead had reciprocated.

Still... Ken _had_ just kissed the daylights out of the prick. _And_ gotten kissed back.

Ken gave up trying to restrain the idiotic grin stretching his face. Whirling about, he whooped and punched the air with a fist. Not even the knowing, canaries-and-cream look Yohji wore could spoil the manic delight that sang through his veins: "Just you wait, Fujimiya!" he yelled up the stairs, repeating, "Damn straight that this isn't over!"

Yohji just had to spoil it with applause.

But he had the presence of mind to slap a humble, submissive look on his face when Ken advanced on him with a fist raised. Injured or not, the irate athlete wasn't about to cut him any slack, and Yohji knew a beating when he saw it coming. Placatingly, he offered, "Hey, hey... It's just about time, is all. I've watched you guys dancing around the issue since the day you met."

That made him pause. Not too long ago, he would have protested automatically, but now... Yeah, there _had_ been something there, even then. Except that it hadn't taken Aya long to scare him off. The kenkaya was downright terrifying when he wanted to be.

Musing out loud, Yohji rubbed at his tender ribs and kept on talking while Ken's attention wandered. "In some ways, you and him, you're exactly alike. Both of you want to charge straight ahead toward justice. Both of you would do anything to protect the weak, and the innocent. That surface stuff, like him being cold and logical, and you always following your heart without thinking, it's not as big a deal as you would think. You really do fit together." The flat delivery grabbed Ken's notice. The something that he didn't like was back again, turning the flippant playboy into an unfamiliar person, melancholy and unhappy. And he didn't know how to fix it.

"Back to your theory about how we're meant to compliment each other, is that it?" Ken asked in a whisper.

"Yeah. We all were. So don't quit going after him, okay?" The serious light vanished from Yohji's sad eyes, and his more typical, devilish humor returned. "Although, seriously, anticipation is a great spice-'er-up for a budding relationship. Believe me, when you two finally get there, Omittchi and me, we're going to need ear-plugs."

"What?! Hey-- !" If this was what a stroke felt like, Ken could see why people died from it. The blood was roaring in his ears, and his face felt incandescent.

"Yup. You'll either be really, really happy, or the two of you will be trying to kill each other." Mercurial, his grin shifted back to the wistful end of the spectrum. "Just be good to one another, okay? You both deserve it." Yohji dragged his aching body up from the chair, and sauntered toward the door to the living room, one hand raised in a careless farewell. Ken was so stunned that he actually let the blond go without retaliating, until finally, he whispered, "We... deserve it?"

Was it true? Did assassins like them deserve anything good? And if he and Aya did, then what about a certain smart-ass blond?

* * *

The shrilling of a phone nearly startled Ken out of his wits. It had been so long since he had heard one, and it felt so totally of a piece with the normalcy of that world that they had left behind, of flower shop, and teen-aged girls, and everything else, that he could barely comprehend what the sound was.

So of course Omi was the one who beat him to answering it.

A cheerful grin split the youngest Weiss' face, instantly turning him back into an enthusiastic kid again. He listened intently, nodding along although there was no way that the speaker on the other end could tell, until "Hai!" burst out of him. He dropped the phone back onto its charger and spun around, announcing to the three other members who had all converged from their separate directions, "That was Manx. She'll be here in about four hours. And, she has some news for us!"

It would have been funny under other circumstances, but the net effect of Omi's announcement was to galvanize the team into cleaning. There was nothing that they could do about the broken window, for example, other than suddenly find themselves in agreement that the storms of the past winter had been to blame. As their tech pointed out, he had complained long and bitterly on more than one occasion that the flexing of the big panes played havoc with the sensitive contacts glued to them, and there had been reports of wind damage all over the city as recently as a month ago. But for the rest, the cabin was scrubbed and vacuumed within an inch of its life, and they were all exhausted by the time they staggered, freshly showered and clothed, into the living room and collapsed.

"Remind me why I care." Yohji grumbled. He gingerly pressed a hand to his abused ribs, glaring over the tops of his sunglasses at first one, then another of his teammates.

"Shut up, Kudoh." The clipped words came from Aya, slumped in the solitary chair closest to the dark fireplace. His pose mirrored that of the older blond, splayed fingers supporting his wounded side through a plain black turtleneck shirt. Annoying as always, the invalid had insisted on shifting the furniture during the cleaning frenzy, and Ken suspected that he had pulled something in his half-healed side.

"Ne... Don't be like that, Aya-kun, Yohji-kun." Omi interjected a bit desperately. "You know it's only because it's Manx-san who's coming. We always try to make a good impression on her."

"Huh." Yohji bit back. But he stopped there, swallowing whatever else he had considered saying, fishing instead for the battered pack of cigarettes in the pockets of first the green button down shirt he wore, then in his jeans. When he realized that they weren't there, he snarled a curse under his breath, adding, "All right, Aya. What did you do with them? If you threw them out, so help me God, I'll make you go through the garbage to find 'em."

Puzzled, Ken and Omi both stared at the older pair. What in the world...? Abruptly, Ken snapped his fingers; that was right, as pinch-hit medic, Aya had taken the cigarettes away from Yohji when he and Omi had returned from their ill-fated recon mission into the city. Ken had seen them jammed into the back pocket of the redhead's jeans... jeans which were currently going around and around in the washing machine back in the cramped utility room.

For once, God was on their side. Aya glared back at Yohji, shifting minutely to find a more comfortable position, then relented and snapped, "Upstairs. On the dresser in my room."

Still grumbling, Yohji uncurled his rangy, long-limbed form from the sagging embrace of the old couch and stomped off up the wooden steps, getting the maximum amount of noise from each of the treads. Given that he was in stocking feet, rather than wearing his usual low boots, the performance was pretty impressive. Omi huddled in on himself, burying his face in his hands.

Ken had a pretty good idea what was bothering their team's youngest. Omi filled the role of negotiator, more often than not, and had the best rapport with their handler. It must be driving him crazy to see their recent camaraderie dissolving back into the tense hostility that had been there toward the end of the old days, before Aya had been kidnapped. Interestingly enough, the frown on the redhead's face was just as unhappy, and before Ken knew it, he had made a decision, and his mouth was already moving. "Hey, Omi, why don't you go check up on Yohji? It's been a while since his bandages were changed."

Puzzled, their regular medic opened his mouth to disagree, to point out that it had less than an hour because he had taken care of that chore as soon as Yohji had finished his shower, but Ken forestalled him with a glare. Willing their silent habit of communication during missions to work for this situation, as well, he flicked a significant glance toward Aya, moodily staring out the window, and jerked his head toward the stairs. Comprehension cleared the shadows from the younger Hunter's features, and he nodded. Of course. "Yes, I should look in on him. It wouldn't do to have Manx-san think I wasn't taking good care of him." Unspoken, the return message was _Okay, I'll deal with Yohji-kun; good luck with Aya-kun_, and then the slight figure was bounding up the stairs, two at a time.

Ken dipped his head, a wasted acknowledgment given that Omi was already out of sight, and took a deep breath. He so did _not_ want to try to reason with Aya. The swordsman had barely spoken two words to him since the passionate exchange in the kitchen, and he wasn't entirely sure if the promise to continue later still held good, or not. But... nothing ventured, nothing gained. He pulled himself out of his end of the couch, and approached the silent man.

But once he got there, he was at a loss how to proceed. Standing over the seated form felt like a kind of intimidation, and sitting on the floor was right out, because then Aya would have the upper hand, and would be able to continue staring out the window, ignoring the athlete. That left perching on the arm of the chair, which was no good since it meant getting inside the zone that Aya always marked out as his personal space. Plus, it felt kind of intimate, and he wasn't sure if that was allowed. Clear violet eyes glanced up, meeting Ken's dark brown before he could figure out what to do.

"What do you want?" There wasn't as much of a sting to the low words as there usually was, and that encouraged Ken. He spread his hands wide, displaying his lack of threat.

"To talk. That's all."

"Hn." the taciturn redhead grunted. But he seemed to grasp the reason for Ken's hesitation, and straightening, hooked the battered hassock that matched his chair with his foot, dragging it close enough for Ken to use, or not, as he saw fit. The ambiguous invitation was about as much as he could expect, given that this was Aya, and Ken felt a tiny smile tug at his lips. He sat.

"So, what do you think Manx has found out?" he ventured shyly. Wrenching his attention back from the blue-violet view of the stony mountain slope outside, Aya shot him a hard stare.

"If we knew enough to speculate about that, she wouldn't be coming here, would she?" he snapped.

Ken flinched, but nodded. So, Aya was apprehensive, too. Butterflies were tumbling around in the brunet's stomach, and it figured that they were affecting even Mr. Steel-for-Nerves. He'd noticed that the older man was capable of intense focus – when there was something to focus on. Take away any semblance of a concrete goal, or an identifiable opponent, and Aya crumbled. And, Aya _hated_ being unsure of himself and the ground under his feet. Keeping his tone calm and neutral, Ken remarked, "She told Omi that they had made some progress identifying the bodies from the first two attacks. But he noticed that something about it had her worried. It makes me wonder who those people were."

"Aa." Aya turned entirely from the windows, fixing his attention entirely on the younger man seated in front of him. He frowned slightly, generating a faint crease between the red wings of his brows. "Then, they weren't yakuza, or some other group that we've had dealings with before..." The words trailed off as the man's clever mind sank deeper into the net of implications. The situation was also something that warranted Manx coming to see them, rather than preserving the secrecy of their whereabouts by minimizing contact. "Ken," he said softly, "what is it that I've stumbled into?"

The plaintive words cut him right to the bone, and without bothering to consider the consequences, Ken leaned forward and rubbed the backs of his knuckles gently down the line of Aya's jaw. A fractional tilt of the head returned the pressure. "I don't know." the brunet admitted quietly. "I get the feeling that we're sitting on the tip of an iceberg, there's so much that we don't know."

"Just so long as we're not sitting ducks." The merest twitch of Aya's lips telegraphed that he had meant the reply as a joke, and Ken felt one of his own eyebrows take off for his scalp. He had heard samples of Aya's dry wit before, and suspected that there had been a lot more occasions where it had gone sailing unnoticed right over his head, but this was the first time that the redhead had invited him to share in it.

"Hmm." Still not thinking, he followed the line of his wrist and hand up, grazing a light kiss along Aya's jaw. A slight turn of the head, and he found warm lips instead. Was he letting Aya take advantage of him, to use him as a distraction? If he was, Ken didn't care.

A quiet cough behind him brought Ken back to his senses, only to find that he was kneeling in the chair, practically straddling Aya's lap. He tensed to spring backwards, but a firm tug on his hip stopped him. Aya. Aya's hands were holding on to him, fingers laced through the empty belt-loops of Ken's worn blue jeans. His t-shirt, which had been sloppily tucked to begin with, was now completely free, and he could swear that the skin along his waistband was buzzing from the glancing contact of those long, agile fingers.

"It's a good thing that I'm not Manx-san." Omi said teasingly. "Kritiker may have planned for this, but I think it would still give her a heart-attack to see it in action."

Ken opened his mouth to protest vehemently, but Aya beat him to the punch. "Omi. Shut up." Surprisingly, there was the faintest tint of pink along the prominent cheekbones.

"Yeah, kiddo. Considering the last couple of days, it's 'hello? pot? kettle, here' for you."

"Yohji-kun!"

Ken considered twisting around to see how the latest installment in the running battle of the blonds was shaping up, but something in Aya's gaze stopped him, and he was again drowning in the twilight shades of lavender and pewter. If this was what Aya looked like when he used someone to take his mind off of worries, he was welcome to, any time. The hands restraining Ken tugged slightly, and he was drawn down for another leisurely teasing of lips and tongue against his. He ended up resting against Aya's chest, his elbows propped against the back of the chair, one to either side of the man's head, when the slam of a car door made both of them jerk. Aya's fingers lazily unwound themselves from his belt-loops, tacitly giving permission for him to withdraw. The swordsman's unblinking eyes held him in thrall as Omi exclaimed excitedly and went galloping for the back door. Somewhere, there was the _click-flick_ of a lighter, and Yohji's exhalation, murmuring, "Jesus... Way to defuse the tension, guys."

By the time Manx walked in, Ken was back in the sofa, knees drawn up to conceal his groin, just in case she should notice anything, and Aya had a foot propped negligently on the footstool resting in front of his chair. Yohji was smoking, staring at the beamed ceiling, and muttering to himself. Omi was chattering away about trivialities as if he hadn't a care in the world, reminding his team that he wasn't quite as innocent and transparent as they tended to think he was. Ken, especially, caught the wicked grin and wink that the teenager shot his way from behind Manx's back.

She looked them all over, and nodded, apparently satisfied by what she saw. It was a distinct possibility that a large part of her reason for insisting on visiting was solely to check up on them. With that in mind, Ken just hoped that his face was something approaching a normal color. "Well, let's get down to business then, shall we? I have some news, and not a lot of it is good."

Omi took her fur-trimmed coat, and went to hang it neatly on a hook in the hall to the utility room. Two plastic sacks of groceries, courtesy of the petite woman, went into the kitchen. By the time he returned, Manx had appropriated both the empty spot on the couch, and the hacker's laptop, slipping in a cd-rom that emerged from inside her fire-engine red suit coat. The smaller youth dropped down onto the floor, seating himself between the handler and Ken, turning the athlete's shin into a backrest.

As the computer's screen lit, both Yohji and Aya took up positions behind the couch, with the older blond perching himself, one foot swinging casually, and Aya folding his arms predictably across his chest. Manx ignored the maneuvering, intent on bringing up a series of mug shots in a neat array across the screen. "There were eleven bodies recovered from the three attack points." she explained, "With the evidence suggesting that the four of you may have accounted for as much as twice that number in kills. The number of wounded that were removed, and the total size of each assault force is unknown, but we estimate that the enemy's strength may have been as many as thirty men. That's unfortunate, because, as you all know, there are few organizations in Japan capable of fielding a force of that size."

"Taketori." Aya breathed. Ken was startled by the freight of rage packed into the four syllables. Shaking her head, Manx promptly demurred. "No. Your opponents were all well-trained. Following the collapse of Taketori Reiji's brief take-over, there aren't enough experienced men left from his special forces to make up a group like this. And besides-- " She clicked on the middle thumbnail in the top row of images, expanding it to fill the screen. "At least some of them are strangers to Japan."

Ken leaned to the side a little, attempting to get a better look at the face on the screen. It was that of a middle-aged, nondescript man. Asian, probably Cambodian or Lao by the flat planes of his features and the shape of his eyes. Manx tapped the screen with one long, exquisitely manicured scarlet nail. "The last name we have for him is Nyung Phoc. He used to belong to the Shining Path."

"'Shining Path?' Sendero Luminoso...? But, they're South American?" Omi's sweet alto was confused. He wriggled around, looking to each of his teammates for confirmation. Aya nodded. Yohji shrugged.

"Yes. But there are a lot of ties to Asia in their group. In Peru in general, in fact. For example, Alberto Fujimori, their former president, is here in Japan, where he's fighting extradition on nearly twenty charges of corruption, and allegations that he authorized death squad killings. He's been here since 2000. But to continue-- " She clicked open another tiny image, expanding it to fill the laptop's screen. "This one is Leung Choeun. He is known to have been a part of the Khmer Rouge up until Ta Mok's capture in March of 1999. His whereabouts was unknown after than, until he turned up dead at the Kritiker safe house. And this-- " The mouse cursor skated rapidly to another icon, putting two photos up simultaneously. One was that of an obviously dead woman, eyes vacant, while the other showed a blurry image of a vivacious face and long, dark hair. "Our intelligence division is not able to confirm her identity, but we believe her to be a Chinese national who's been a member of a hit squad that dates back to the Cultural Revolution." 

A three-way argument erupted between the Weiss at that point, with Manx waiting patiently for the more vocal members to subside. Aya didn't bother to; his sharp exclamation of "Enough!" cut across the others like the razor edge of his katana. Ken twisted around to stare up at the grim man. He snapped, "Drop the other shoe, Manx." 

She shrugged, and complied. "In short, gentlemen, it's our considered opinion that you've gotten involved in more than we can handle. 

The brief answer meant nothing to Ken, but it apparently made sense to at least the brains of the team. Omi managed to find his tongue first. "No, no – it doesn't work. They're all Communists, sure, but the Shining Path are a splinter Maoist group. They would never have anything to do with a Khmer Rouge. And the one guy, the guy from Bulgaria, or where ever it was, that's a whole other flavor." 

The rapid flood meant something to Aya, who frowned, deep in thought. "Mercenaries, perhaps? Expatriates?" 

" Maybe." Manx agreed. "It would fit for most of the others that we've gotten a handle on. But either way, we're out of our league. After the fall of the Persia that you all knew..." She hesitated delicately, unwilling to name Taketori Shuichi in front of either Omi or Aya, but they all knew what she meant. "The surviving organization made the decision that politics was a slippery slope that we would do well to stay far, far away from. What one person sees as evil, may be perfectly justifiable to someone of a different ideology. As a result, it was determined that Kritiker would concentrate on the Dark Beasts alone, and on bringing them to justice. Not on political agendas. In addition, after Taketori Reiji's attempt to take-over the government, and then the encounter with Esset, we simply don't have the level of personnel it would take to go up against a group like this. I'm sure that by now you've all figured out that you are the only formal unit left that is authorized for deadly force. I have some sweepers and cleaners, but not enough to be effective." 

The four of them exchanged glances around Manx. None of them had missed the possessive manner in which she referred to the ordinary suits. But of greater importance was the implication that Kritiker had taken a hard blow to the body, and simply could not stand against a professional force. A chill shiver ran down Ken's spine. If the enemy had fielded a force of at least thirty, and only eleven were confirmed as dead, that still left five for each Weiss; he didn't care for the odds too much. 

The same thought had occurred to Omi. The youth spoke somberly. "Manx-san, I agree that we can't stay on the run forever, but this? How are we supposed to take on a paramilitary group? We don't even know how they came to capture Aya-kun. Or why." 

* * *

With Manx gone, the kitchen was a better place for a meeting than the living room, especially with the boarded up window providing a vivid reminder of Aya's fragile mental state. It was a distinct possibility that an awareness of that fact was also what drove Omi to bustle around the kitchen, raiding the bags that their handler had brought them, and fixing a hodge-podge of the foods that he liked best: comfort foods like pancakes and steamed dumplings, and a heaping bowl of ice cream with a ton of toppings. Ken noticed that tempting tidbits kept appearing at Aya's place at the freshly-scrubbed table, and that when no one was watching, the redhead actually ate. It gave the soccer player an odd lift to his spirits that the morose man wasn't starving himself.

When Yohji, late as usual, finally ambled in, Omi let loose an exasperated breath and shoved the blond at the remaining empty place. A plate clattered down in front of him, followed in rapid succession by a mug of coffee, the sugar bowl, and the carton of milk. Chuckling, the older man doctored his coffee and helped himself to enough food to feed the whole team. "Mmph. Good." he declared around a mouthful.

"Even that doesn't shut you up." Omi groused. Good-naturedly, Yohji flipped him off and continued eating while their cook concentrated on scooping softened ice cream onto a pancake. Ken stared in fascination as his agile fingers folded over the lop-sided circle of dough. Omi took a blissful bite. A pale dribble of melted vanilla ice cream escaped down the beardless chin and the startled brunet had to look away before he did something stupid, like sit there with his tongue hanging out. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and took a turn at Aya-watching.

Not that looking at the handsome young assassin was that much of a chore. Aya gotten up to put his dirty dishes in the sink, and peeled off his rusty black turtleneck to put it to soak to get out a stain. The t-shirt that he wore beneath was just as dead in color, but it fit his trim lines like a glove. Exhausted though the man might be, his erect carriage warned the others subtly to stay at a distance. To Ken's mind, the combination was attractive as all get out; blending as it did with the memory of pressing that slender body against the kitchen counter.

Sheesh. Between Aya and Omi, he was at risk of developing a one-track mind. He glanced back at Omi in time to see the older blond lean over and swipe at the trail of melting ice cream on the blushing teenager's face with one long forefinger, saying, "See? This is how you do it-- " as he popped the finger into his mouth and sucked.

"Eh, yeah." Omi squeaked. He busied himself with flipping open his laptop and powering it up, but Ken heard him mutter under his breath, "So _not_ going there, thank you very much."

Well. That was interesting. It was looking as if Yohji had gotten over his discomfort at having the words 'Omittchi' and 'sex' in the same sentence. Ken mourned fleetingly for the loss of their sure-fire, favorite prank. It just wasn't the same, pretending to make sounds of passion, when the playboy wasn't going to be flustered by them. Hell, considering their recent 'team-building' activities, it would probably end up being _him_ that died of embarrassment. He stole another glance at Aya, and was immediately mesmerized by the way his shoulder blades moved beneath the taut fabric as he scrubbed at the shirt.

Omi leaned over and poked the distracted athlete in the side of the neck. Hard.

"Ow! Hey, what was that for?!"

"I already said 'Earth to Ken-kun' twice." Omi responded mildly. He rolled another pancake-and-ice-cream sandwich and bit into it with sufficient lasciviousness as to make Yohji burst into laughter.

"Sick." Ken muttered. "You're both sick."

Aya stayed where he was, leaning against the edge of the counter with his arms folded defiantly. Ken wondered at that, briefly. He had noticed that during Manx's report, Aya had returned to pissy and stand-offish. Which, while hardly unusual, still seemed a bit excessive. Ought he to go and try to distract the tense redhead again, or would it be better to leave well enough alone?

He watched the minute bunch and ripple of the muscles in Aya's forearms, how they shifted as he clenched his hands within the concealment afforded by his armpits. No, on second thought, approaching the swordsman would be suicidal. Definitely one to leave alone. Aya's cold, precise voice cut across his thoughts. "Omi. You wanted us to meet, to continue the discussion. We're all here. Would you get down to business?"

If nothing else came out of the whole debacle, Omi had at least lost his tendency to cringe when Aya used _that_ tone. Gentian-blue eyes shining, the teen bounced his feet on his chair's rungs. He nearly vibrated, and it wasn't entirely due to a sugar high. "I've been thinking," he announced cheerfully, "And I have an idea how we can carry the attack to them, instead of sitting around waiting."

Meal finished, Yohji dropped his chop sticks onto his plate, leaned his cheek on his hand and twitched one corner of his lips up in a smirk. "Ah. Why am I not surprised? Go for it."

"Thank you." Omi sketched a bow in the older man's direction and glanced around at the rest of his team. "I think that we're not the only ones hampered by a lack of information. Like, take the ambush at the parking garage. They fired at me with tranquilizers, and at Yohji-kun with bullets. That suggests that they wanted to take me alive for some reason, but weren't interested in him. That would fit _only_ if they believed we were who we were pretending to be. I would be of value if they were curious as to how much I knew about Aya-kun, and the two foreign men who kidnapped him."

"But... That doesn't make sense." protested Ken. "We've tangled with them three times now. They've gotta know what we look like. What _all_ of us look like."

With growing excitement, the younger blond shook his head vigorously. "No, wait. Not necessarily. At the mansion, you and I didn't leave any survivors in the Aya's room. In the kitchen, when Aya interceded, one man did escape, but at the time, I was over next to the refrigerator with Yohji-kun. There's a good possibility that we weren't seen. At the loft, the one Aya-kun captured committed suicide, so, again, there was no one who got a good look at us. _If_ they managed to follow us to here, to the Villa, we've all kept a low profile, staying indoors, and away from vantage points. Their behavior all suggests that they're fishing for information. I don't think that the enemy knows any more about us, than we do about them. Less, maybe, since Manx has promised me everything that Kritiker has been able to learn from the bodies that the clean up crew processed." He finished the last, rushed sentence with a triumphant grin.

Yohji whistled, impressed, and lit up. He tossed both lighter and cigarettes on the table, and leaned back to blow a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "Could be..." he mused. "I have history with the cops as a private detective. You _definitely_ looked your part. Even turning Aya loose with those chips in him, and following him is something I could see them doing if they were trying to figure out his associates."

Jumping up, Omi headed for the refrigerator. As he opened a can of Coke, he tossed an observation over his shoulder: "You know, you can always tell when you're on the right track. Everything just feels so right. _This_ feels right. I just know we're onto the right track."

His enthusiasm was infectious. Nodding, Ken had to admit that Omi had a way of making even the craziest idea seem straight-forward and logical. If Manx was able to come through for them, they might have an edge and finally be able to take the offensive. He gave his friend a high-five as Omi rejoined them at the kitchen table.

"When I'm right, I'm right." The mixture of smugness and modesty would have had the fangirls at the flower shop swooning in the aisles. "There's more," Omi cautioned, passing his soda from hand to hand. "I've also got some thoughts as to how we can turn all this to our advantage."

The devil in Yohji found teasing the wound-up teen irresistible. Sunglasses perched in his tousled hair, he planted his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and used them to support his chin. He gave Omi a patently fake look of adoration, and drawled, "Hey, Omittchi... Didja know 'smart' is also 'sexy?' Now might be a good time to make your move." He gave a not-so-subtle jerk of his head toward Ken, who blanched.

"Wha-- ?" The timing was perfect. Comprehension soaked in just as their tactician was winding up to deliver round two on his theory. The can of soda wobbled dangerously close to the edge of the table, unheeded as Omi goggled at Yohji and flushed a deep scarlet. "Y- Yohji-kun! How-- ?" he sputtered. Yohji howled with laughter and launched himself out of his chair before his chair before the outraged assassin could reach him. The Coke can wanged off the corner of the stove when Omi pegged it at him.

Aya caught the petit form as he rounded the end of the table, swinging him around with surprising ease. Omi found himself back in his seat before he even registered than he had been captured. He blinked owlishly at the long, pale fingers resting on his shoulder, then up at Aya, who grimaced at the snickering playboy. Ken braced himself for the inevitable explosion, sure that they had gone way past the man's limits, but it never came. Instead, Yohji had the good grace to squirm uncomfortably, and slink quietly back to his place.

The slender hand gently squeezed the youth's thin shoulder. "Omi? Are you sure that setting yourself up is a wise course? They haven't shown much reluctance to kill those who are in their way."

Nodding, Omi laced his fingers together with Aya's. "I know." he answered solemnly, blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on violet. "But it's time to take the fight to them. We've let them choose the time and place for far too long."


	12. Chapter 12: Anticipation

**Reflections: Anticipation**

_Chapter 12_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

* * *

"Whoa! Say what?" exclaimed Yohji, just as Ken squawked "NO!" at the top of his lungs. The taller blond stalked back over to the kitchen table and leaned forward, both hands planted between the clutter of dirty dishes. Any desire to goof off was completely forgotten as he addressed Aya and Omi in dead-seriousness. "We are not hanging _anyone_ out as bait, got that?"

After a warning squeeze of the redhead's callused fingers, Omi disengaged his hand. There was nothing delicate about the set of his jaw as he stared down Yohji, even though the older assassin loomed over him. "I'm the logical choice, Yohji-kun. They've already made one attempt to take me – alive – and I think that they'll want to try again."

"No." A fist slammed onto the pale maple surface, making the dishes jump and rattle. "You're not doing it."

The same fire that had lit the smallest of their team's eyes when he had taken Yohji down a few days earlier returned with a vengeance. Omi slowly rose to his feet and, mirroring the wire man's stance, leaned over until they were nearly nose to nose. His childish voice was harsh and low as he whispered, "Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Kudoh. I'm a member of this team. An _equal_ member. And I have been since long before you showed up. The only alternative would be to put Aya-kun out there. And, seeing as they've already demonstrated that they would just as soon kill him as talk to him, I do _not_ find that to be acceptable. Am I clear?"

Startled, Yohji recoiled, but at the grim expression on the teenager's face, his green eyes shuttered and grew hard. "Crystal." he snapped.

"Good." Omi straightened and resumed his seat. Head bent, his shaggy bangs obscured his features, but there was no mistaking the tense set to his narrow shoulders. His fingers flew across his laptop's keyboard, then he spun the machine around so that the other Weiss could see the scrolling columns of numbers and characters. Every so often, there was a bar of red that high-lighted one of the entries.

"What's that?" Ken asked, curiously. They looked like times and phone numbers, but he had no idea what the rest of it could be.

The display froze, leaving a block of red on the screen. Omi took a gulp of his Coke and began. "It occurred to me that the guys who hit Yohji and I had to have been tipped off about our visit to the police station. Otherwise, there is no way that they could have been in position to follow us to the isolation of the parking structure. That means that someone in the station, someone in close proximity to the Tanagawa prostitution case, made the call. What I've done is to pull up records of every phone call made at the police station during and shortly after our visit to Detective Tsanakia. Those that were to numbers outside of the station are shown in red. As you can see, we have something like thirty calls to look into."

"Huh." Relaxing marginally, the former PI reached for and twiddled the laptop's touch-pad, scrolling the display up and down. "Yeah, once we eliminate the calls to the wife about dinner, tracking down what's left shouldn't be too bad."

Under his breath, Omi retorted, "Or to the husband?" but the strain eased from his muscles as well and he slumped a little.

A faint twitch to Yohji's lips showed that he had caught the remark, but he let it slide. "How about cell calls?"

"Got 'em. Unless our guy used a satellite phone, everything is on there. Now, what I propose is this: You go see your friend and complain that some guys tried to jump you. Storm into his office, make a lot of noise. You can make it sound like you suspect I'm to blame, if you want. Tsanakia-sensei already doesn't think much of me. But tell him that you dumped me back in Tanagawa. With a little luck, whoever is leaking information to the opposition will notify them that Yuki-kun has been cut loose, and they'll come looking for me there. We'll monitor out-going calls from the station, and hopefully get a lead on them from that direction, too." Omi turned to Ken. "This is where you and Aya-kun come in. I know it isn't terribly smart of us to pull everyone from the Villa, and I _am_ concerned that someone will recognize one of you, but I'm also reluctant to involve any of Manx's people."

Ken nodded vigorously, and Aya inclined his head, acknowledging what their tactician left unsaid: there was still a possibility that the near-fatal leak had come from within Kritiker. "So, what do I do?" Ken asked matter-of-factly, outwardly more concerned with filling his plate up with seconds.

Omi shot the brunet a grateful look, relieved that he was so agreeable. "I want you for my back-up, Ken-kun. You know your way around the red-light district in Tanagawa, and some of the hookers will remember you."

"What about Honey?" Worried, the athlete paused, chop sticks suspended half-way between plate and mouth. He barely noticed when Yohji's long fingers darted in and liberated the forgotten morsel.

"I don't think she'll be a problem. If she's on the up and up, I doubt that she's told anyone about you. Why risk sharing a cash cow? And, if she's one of _them_, all it means is less time spent waiting around for them to make a move."

"Oh." That seemed logical. Although, there was one flaw in the plan: he would have to wear those ripped-up jeans again. Ken said as much, and was rewarded by a hoot of raucous laughter from their resident pervert. Omi's sympathetic smile grew strained as he avoided looking at the cackling man.

"Don't feel bad; I'll be wearing my same clothes, too.

"Are you sure?" Youji said doubtfully. "They were a real mess."

"So much the better." Shrugging, Omi busied himself with putting away some of the left overs. He tossed a dishcloth to Ken, indicating that he should wipe down the dirty table. "If I look like I've been roughed up, no one will wonder that I turn down customers."

Scowling, the former soccer player scrubbed at a spill and grumbled, "So, while we're hanging all our bits out there to freeze, what're Yohji and Aya going to be doing?"

"Hopefully tracing phone calls." The hacker replied promptly. "I can show Aya how to use the software since he's already proficient with the computer. With a little luck, they'll find out where our opponents are headquartered, and who's feeding them information."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" Ken asked dryly.

Omi's tone was modest, although a grin tugged at his lips and amused pride lurked under that surface. "I try. I really do try."

* * *

Left to his own devices, Ken wandered through the first floor of Villa Weiss. It wasn't that he wasn't welcome upstairs, just that his teammates were better occupied without him. Omi had conscripted Yohji to assist with sifting through the mass of data Manx had left behind on the cd-rom. Aya had, not too surprisingly, gone back to bed. It didn't take much to exhaust him, and if he was going out for the first time in a month as the wire man's backup, he needed all the rest he could get.

Which left Ken. Who was bored.

He opened the door to the small room that they had designated as 'the den' a couple of years back, and sneezed. It was more of an over-grown storeroom, fusty-smelling and crammed full of boxes, but it had a desk, and an older tower computer that their techie generally ignored out of a preference for his laptop. Aya had left behind stacks of books, and there was a random muddle of old magazines and whatever else had been abandoned after past visits.

All boring.

He was on the verge of pulling the door closed behind him when a flicker of light caught his eye and drew him back in. Curious, he let his instincts lead him, but this time he left the overhead lights off. After a moment, the rapid green pulse led him to the computer's CPU; the monitor was turned off, but something was running its hard drive, and whatever it was, it was hard at work. The latch clicked as Ken's hand clenched on the doorknob, then he was across the room and sliding into the chair at the desk.

Once the monitor was on, the athlete scanned the creeping lines of text scrolling up the screen. While he wasn't at Omi's level - none of the other Weiss could come close to their youngest member's skill - he could and did use the search programs that the teenager had written. This looked to be one that the hacker had designed to trawl through bank records, looking for credit card purchases that matched specific criteria. The thing was, who was running it? Omi? But why would he bother?

Baffled, Ken clicked on the tab for the current search strategy. It quickly became apparent why the program was running so slowly; it had only a fragment of a credit card number to compare to the records of every airline and air freight company that did business through Tokyo, and it was sifting through the whole month prior to Aya's abduction. Gnawing thoughtfully on the side of his thumb, the athlete sank back in the chair and stared at the lines of information.

It just didn't make sense. If the search were Omi's, he'd be running it on the laptop to take advantage of its superior processor. And besides, the query, with its nested layers, didn't have the elegant feel of the hacker's code. Yohji? No, if the other blond wanted something, he'd just ask Omi to do it for him. Which meant Aya.

Doing research without telling the rest of the team was a completely Aya-ish sort of thing to do, Ken had to admit that. Grudgingly, but he recognized a truth when it bit him in the butt. Aya had been far less withdrawn and hostile than his norm, but trust just wasn't in the man's make-up. He would let the team help him, but only so far.

But what was he trying to discover?

Ken leaned forward and began going back through the program's history log. Observation number one: Aya was trying to trace the movement of something, was looking for a pattern of freight shipments. Given the volume going through Tokyo's Narita Airport, the number of records was staggering, and it looked like he was including Japan's other international airport, the Kansai, outside of Osaka. All he had to narrow it down was the middle part of a credit card number, and a limited time frame. Not that an entire month was all _that_ limited. He slid the scroll bar back to the top of the log. The program had already been running for over a day, real time, and had produced a whopping total of nine hits… on four different card accounts that each contained the fragmentary number. Which led to observation number two, namely, that it was going to take a hell of a long time for the search to yield any results. Assuming that it ever did.

Scowling, Ken slid down in the chair and braced the soles of his feet against the edge of the desk. Ought he to confront Aya about the whole damned thing, or just let it ride? If the stubborn redhead was feeling his way along, running on a hunch and a guess, the intrusion would be far from welcome. Might even get Ken his head bitten off. And he could think of a whole lot of things he would rather do with his handsome teammate than having a screaming argument. But that was the flip side of the coin; Ken just didn't know if he could manage to _not_ say something. At some point, his mouth was bound to run away from him, and he would end up just blurting out some stupid accusation. Maybe the right thing to do would be to bring up the computer activity, if he could find some non-judgmental way to do it?

He sighed. Life was certainly a lot simpler when his interactions with the other young man had been limited to staying clear of his evil temper. Then again… A shiver of appreciative warmth ran down from his scalp to his belly; Aya could sure as hell kiss. Grinning, Ken returned the program to the way he had found it and jabbed the 'off' button on the monitor. It looked like Fujimiya had unknowingly bought himself some slack.

But while the decision left him with a puzzle to mull over, it did nothing to assuage the condition that had brought Ken into the disused den in the first place: he was _still_ bored. Stomach rumbling, the hungry brunet figured that his next stop might as well be the kitchen, so he took the back hall the led behind the staircase, through the utility room. Knowing Omi, there was probably a small mountain of onigiri wrapped up in plastic wrap in the 'fridge, and he might find something else worth heating up, too.

Ken swore under his breath when he stubbed his toe just through the door to the darkened utility room. Hopping backward, he barked his shin on another obstruction, and finally fumbled for the light switch, ready to rip who ever it was a new one.

Oh. It was his own basket of dirty clothes. Sheepishly, he scrubbed at the back of his neck, grateful that none of the others had been there for his performance. Yohji especially. The man was proving to be a lot nicer than Ken had given him credit for, but that didn't mean that the younger Hunter wanted to be subjected to his braying laugh _or_ the inevitable smart-ass cracks about slaughtering a harmless basket of laundry. He sighed again as his stomach growled even louder; better start the washer first.

But damned if he was going to spend a lot of time on it.

Annoyed, he upended the basket, then stared in surprise at the small, soft-sided suitcase that tumbled out with a _thud_ onto the tiled floor.

_What the hell…?_

The memory came, unbidden, of returning from his expedition to Tanagawa with the videotapes, and with Aya's black bag. He had jammed the wadded up clothes that he had worn on the mission into his hamper after Aya had remarked on the amount of skin that the ripped jeans displayed. Without meaning to, he had apparently dumped the redhead's over-night bag into the basket, too. And then promptly forgotten about it.

A prickle of shame heated Ken's cheeks. Forgetting about a potentially important piece of the puzzle like that was unforgivable. It went beyond his usually klutziness. Disconsolate, he dumped his clothes back into their basket and kicked it to the side; no sense in tripping anyone else; and carried the black kit on through into the kitchen. He might as well have a look before he told the others about his gaff. And it might not be as bad as all that. To be honest, he didn't really expect to find anything in it beyond a few changes of Aya's clothes, and maybe his toiletries. The redhead's destroyed laptop had had its own neat, black bag, and Aya never, ever took paper files with him. But there was a hard lump under a jumble of underwear and socks that should have been put into the laundry ages ago. Perplexed, the younger man fished it out.

Oh. It was just a book. Somehow, Ken realized that he should have expected it: Aya didn't care to watch TV, and never accepted invitations to go out for something like watching a soccer match. Instead, the reticent man would disappear to some quiet spot, and crack open a book. This was probably the last thing that he had been absorbed in. Ken fanned through the pages on the off-chance that some scrap of paper, maybe used as a bookmark, might fall out and provide them with a clue. Nothing did, of course, and he was about to toss the book onto the table when the back of the lurid jacket caught his attention: _Run-away best seller… The no-holds-barred, personal story of the Meiji Restoration's most notorious killer…_

Ken made a rude noise. As if he wanted to read about an historical assassin when he was living the life for real, in the modern age. Omi had forced him to watch a docu-drama not long before on Takechi Zuizan, and Okada Izo. Takechi had struck him as a sort of early Persia, manipulating the political arena, and sending his loyal followers out to deal with any opposition. Okada, on the other hand, with his callous nature and ruthless skill with a sword, had reminded both of them of nothing so much as Aya. Or, at least, the old Aya. Okaba had even shouted things like 'Heaven's Revenge!' as he cut his victims. In Omi's opinion, it sounded better than 'Die, Takatori!' and Ken was inclined to agree with him.

He turned the book in his hands, noting that while it was far from old, the edges of the pages were just a bit grubby, as if it had been handled a lot, maybe read over and over. The soft paper was rubbed till it frayed on the corners, yet care had been taken to not crack its spine. That was Aya, all over. It figured that Aya would have such a well-worn, but well-cared-for book. Still there was nothing about it to clue him in on where it had been. Too bad it was just a book, and not a camera. He dropped it on the table and returned to the small suitcase.

Nothing.

In addition to the underwear and book, the bag held a somewhat thread-bare tee-shirt that had the scratchy feel of having been hand-washed and then air-dried, as opposed to being run through a washer and dryer. There were faint, maroon stains on it that could have been old blood, but that was it. The Scotch-guarded cloth of the bag itself was not likely to hold fingerprints, so there was no hope of Yohji pulling a rabbit out of the hat as he had when they had tried to confirm Aya's identity. The only thing Ken could thing of was that he would have to ask Aya how the bag had come to be at the Hot Body's offices, seeing as he hadn't been carrying it when he was captured.

It could have been worse, he supposed. It would still be necessary to confess what had happened with the bag being neglected to the rest of the team, but at least he hadn't done the mission any lasting harm; that was something to be thankful for. Ken tossed the dirty clothes in on top of his own wash, and reached for the book, intending to put it back into suitcase. The sight of the upside-down artwork on the cover froze his hand in place, just as his fingertips touched the paper.

Unbelievable. It was simply, totally unbelievable. Granted, it was an artist's rendering, and not a photo, but that red hair, and the violet eyes that burned from the picture… It was Aya.

Alarmed, Ken turned the book around to get a better look at its cover. And blinked. Even right-side-up, the young man on the cover was his teammate, right down to the bone-chilling glare. But once he got past the searing cold of that stare, Ken began to note some differences. For example, the elfinly pretty face was that of a boy, at most Omi's age. He was standing, dressed in dark blue hakama and haori, back mostly to the viewer, looking over his shoulder, and by the look of his childish figure, he would be best described as 'petit.' The scarlet hair drawn up into a high pony-tail was _long_, falling to his waist.

Surprised, and a little intrigued in spite of himself, the sports enthusiast opened the cover and read the inside of the book's dust jacket. Supposedly, the biography was drawn from the subject's own, personal writings, left to his son at his death, and also from a series of notebooks that that younger man had filled when he had set out on a quest interviewing every survivor of the bloody years that he had been able to find, hoping to get to know his enigmatic father. Ken flipped through the book, pausing at grainy, black and white photos of men in old fashioned kimonos and hakama, posed with great deliberation for studio shots, sometimes with their daisho, sometimes with a dainty wife at their sides. A few of the shots he recognized, important men of the day like Sakamoto Ryoma, or Saigo Takamori, but most bore tiny inscriptions that meant nothing to him. Shrugging, he turned back to the beginning and read the opening paragraphs.

_When I look into a mirror, or a still pool of water, I am reminded that all things are illusion. That the world is nothingness. That **I** am nothing. For surely, if a mirror could reveal the truth, then all would see the blood stained heart of me, rather than the beauty that fate has seen fit to bestow upon me. Because the mirror does not show the taint, nor the pool reveal the blood… all one sees of me is pale skin, an effeminately pretty form, and violet eyes. Although, at least the blood-crimson of my hair is appropriate to that which I became: an assassin._

_Hitokiri Batoussai._

_The murderer of the innocent._

_Would my life have been different, if I had been born with the stern visage of Toshizou Hijikata, who enforced the harsh code of the Shinsengumi upon friend and foe alike? Or, if I had had the visible, burning intellect of Sakamoto Ryoma, plain for all to see? Sometimes, I wonder what the true aspect of an assassin ought to be. Surely not what I see in the mirror. The fates could not be so cruel, for surely, the outside should be ugly, to match the corruption within. For although I have labored to atone, to right some of the wrongs that I have committed, nothing will ever wash away my sins._

_But I will never cease to try._

_And I will never kill again._

The slim book dropped from Ken's nerveless fingers, leaving him to stare at the opposite wall in stunned confusion. _…nothing will ever wash away my sins._ Oh, shit. For a second, he was tempted to read the book's flyleaf again, to see if it had changed in the intervening minutes, but he couldn't bring himself to pick the volume up again.

The premier assassin of the Meiji Ishin had had violet eyes and red hair, had been beautiful.

Oh, shit, shit, _shit_!

He had looked just like Aya.

He had sworn to never kill again.

An idea that had been niggling at the back of his brain suddenly blossomed into certainty, and he shot out of the kitchen at a run, shouting for Omi and Yohji. The other two came tumbling down the stairs in a worried rush, meeting him halfway. "I've got it!" the brunet panted, too wound up to start at the beginning; he would just have to trust that his teammates were quick on the uptake. "It's not Aya who said the stuff about killing being wrong, it's the guy in this book."

Omi's lightening fast grab intercepted the volume, and he sank down on the steps with a frown as he opened the cover. "Ken. I don't see--"

"Here, gimme." Huffing impatiently, Ken snagged the book back and flipped to the prologue. Finger on the words that had affected him so deeply, he handed it back to the smaller blond, and waited for the inevitable reaction.

"Oh, fuck…"

The unaccustomed curse spilling from innocent lips made Yohji's brows shoot up into his hairline. He pushed his ever-present sunglasses up on top of his head, and settled on a step just above the teen, intent on reading over his shoulder. "Well, I still don't get it." the older blond muttered.

Ken and Omi exchanged looks. Trust the playboy to miss something so obvious. If the subject didn't involve cleavage, or drinking, or going out clubbing, he could be incredibly dense. Since the group's researcher had obviously come to the same conclusion that he had, Ken was more than willing to let the younger Weiss have the fun of explaining. Omi said slowly, "If I'm following Ken-kun's thoughts, I believe what he's saying is that Aya doesn't have amnesia, or anything silly like that. But rather, he's adopted the personality of this man, the assassin of the Meiji Ishin who swore to leave killing behind, and went on to become a powerful force for peace in the new regime. That's why none of us knew what he was talking about. It's as if he's become a new person."

Yohji snorted. "Oh, come on! You know all that multiple personality crap on the talk shows is garbage."

"On the contrary, it actually makes a lot of sense." the other blond demurred. "Aya has always had a tendency to compartmentalize. Just look at how distinct 'Aya' is from 'Ran,' or from 'Abyssinian,' for that matter. I think what Ken's come up with makes a lot of sense. We all know that Aya internalizes a lot of anguish over his life as a killer. We might let it out, sometimes, but he _never_ does. But that doesn't make it any less real. I think he's latched on to the words of this Himura Kenshin, and sees him as an example to follow – as someone who might lead him to the other side."

_To the other side of what? That's the real question. _Ken thought. Even though Omi had come to the same conclusion, had validated his gut reaction, doubt assailed the hunter. Could it really be something so simple? That Aya's exhausted soul had taken refuge in the life of another, long-dead assassin, and was pinning his hopes for salvation on that distant man's journey toward the light? If that was the case, they might be in a hell of a lot more trouble than he had originally supposed.

Yohji had co-opted the book and was skimming through its beginning. Like Ken, he grunted in surprise when he read the description of the Battousai's appearance, even more so than when he saw the probably fictionalized rendering on the cover. He prodded Omi in the shoulder. "Hey, do you think Aya might be a descendant of this guy, or something?"

"Who knows?" Omi had to shrug. "But I think the resemblance might have been what made our favorite redhead stop and take a second look. The similarities in how they ended up accepting the word of others that they were really fighting for the good of the innocents who can't protect themselves is, I think, more telling than the fact that they had the same color hair and eyes. What I don't see, however, is why it's affecting him so much _now_. He's been aware of what we do for a long time. So why break down now?"

"Hn." grunted Ken, and bit his tongue. What Omi was saying was true. They had all had some doubts that their missions were strictly limited to hunting the Dark Beasts that were beyond the reach of law and society. He knew for a fact that it bothered their most taciturn teammate more than he let on. Still holding the book, Yohji stood up and let his long legs carry him over the obstruction that Omi made and on down toward the kitchen. The smaller Hunter jumped up and followed, leaving Ken to trail along in their wake.

"Well, okay. Suppose he really does think he's this Himura guy. How are we going to use that to get him back to being Fujimiya Aya again? If he won't kill, he's got no place in a unit like Weiss." Ever practical, Yohji cut to the heart of the problem as he dropped into a chair at the table and poured himself a cup of bitter, left-over coffee. He propped the book absently against the pot and, still reading as he sipped, turned a page.

"Uh, I don't know." Omi admitted, taking a seat to his left. He picked up and began fiddling with a pair of chopsticks left in the debris on the table, worried blue eyes focused solely on the thin pieces of wood. Ken sighed and grabbed a carton of juice from the 'fridge and a pair of glasses waiting to be put away from the dish-drainer. He poured one full and set it in front of his friend. Omi lifted his gaze and gave him a grateful smile over the rim of the glass, then turned serious again. "Should we be trying to turn him back into Abyssinian? He seems… happier… now. He's opening up to us, for the first time. Maybe we should leave him alone?"

"Can we afford to? If he refuses to kill, what's the point of him being with a bunch of assassins?"

Predictably, the younger blond winced. But he resisted the obvious protest that Aya ought to stay because he was a part of their team. Because, if he continued to refuse, was he really one of them?

Manx was bound to say not. Kritiker would follow her lead. Aya would be gone.

Unable to stand the path his thoughts were taking, Ken bounced back onto his feet and began pacing in a tight, worried triangle: refrigerator, to table, to sink in front of the window, and back again. Finally, he burst out, "Uh, guys… There's one other thing that I didn't tell you; this book was in Aya's bag. I got it from that hooker, Honey, when I got the video tapes from the Hot Body."

"What?" Frowning, Omi stared up at him.

"It was in the office belonging to Mishakawa and Iida, the two guys who own the whorehouse. I- I'm sorry. I screwed up. I should have told you sooner."

Distracted, Omi waved the anguished apology away. The look of concentration he wore sat oddly on his boyish face, then he shook his head. "I still don't get it." he confessed ruefully. "There's something that I'm totally missing. I mean, I can feel that it's there, but I have no idea what it is."

Yohji glanced up. "So, get Aya down here, and ask him." Bemused, the teenager nodded, rose from the table and, still deep in thought, padded out. Yohji's shrewd green eyes cut to the still distraught soccer player. "Kenken, sit down, would you? And quit beating yourself up over it. I forgot, too, okay? I mean, I saw the prick's bag, and I didn't remember to say anything, either."

"Oh." Deflated, Ken sat. For a second, he struggled with the temptation to make excuses, but the truth was that even if it turned out to not be a bid deal, he _had_ let the others down. Just as he had failed Aya, by letting the redhead go out alone. Abruptly miserable, he lowered his head into his folded arms and resisted the urge to cry. A hand squeezing his shoulder made the brunet twitch in surprise.

"Come on, cut it out. Help me figure out how this thing got to Tanagawa, and why those assholes would hide it. There's gotta be something we're missing." When Ken raised his head and stared, Yohji gave him a wry, lopsided smile. "After all, you're the one who's been granted leave to approach His Highness. Chances are, if anyone can figure him out, it'll be you."

"Yohji!" groaned Ken, allowing his head to drop again with a thud.

"All you gotta do is ask him."

Before the brunet could say, 'but that's what I'm afraid of,' light footsteps warned him that the others were there. As if he needed the warning; Aya's wary voice was saying "Ask me what?" from the safety of the doorway. Ken's heart lurched at the lost trust in the sound: it was all his fault.

Well, the damage was done; he might as well get it over with. "Aya, how did they get your overnight bag? You didn't have it with you when they captured you."

"They brought it to me after I regained consciousness. The-- the man told me to clean myself up." The undercurrent of panic was back. They were again skirting close to something that the sullen redhead didn't wish to discuss. Omi shifted subtly behind him, blocking Aya's escape route. Ken opened his mouth to demand _why!_ but Yohji's hand again touched his shoulder gently, and the former detective drawled, "Let me."

The older Hunter got up and leaned casually against the edge of the table, hands stuffed into his pockets. "So," he said mildly, "How could they have brought it to you; your apartment wasn't broken into."

The swift reply was harsh. "I told you. They didn't have to break in. They took my keys off of me."

"Hm." Yohji fumbled out a cigarette and popped the end into his mouth, but he left it unlit. "If they got your overnight bag, why not your laptop?"

"I already told you! I saw to it that it was ruined when they caught me. There were no files at the Kritiker apartment. I had already destroyed the ones from the art show and auction, and had not yet met with Birman over the new assignment. All I had was the invitation to the Press Club luncheon." The sudden spate of words came out in a cold hiss, full of venom. Taken combined with the defensive hunch to his tall form, bundled into another of his hideous, baggy sweaters, and the manner in which his hands clenched into fists, warning bells were going off full blast in Ken's head. Aya took an involuntary step backwards, nearly treading on the small teenager's toes, but Omi paid no attention; his lake-blue eyes had gone bright with interest.

"Whoa. Wait a minute—" the hacker interjected. "That invitation. It wasn't there when we searched the apartment."

"Then they must have taken it." Aya snapped. Desperate, his gaze flickered between his two inquisitors, obviously weighing the need to escape against his reluctance to injure a teammate. Ken guessed that they were about ten seconds shy of having blood splatters all over the clean kitchen.

Yojhi pushed off from the table, his long-fingered grasp closing around Aya's good wrist, tugging him gently off-center. "Why?"

Stumbling, Aya choked, "I don't know! I told you, all they asked me, over and over, was 'who are you?' They never said anything about the invitation, or Kritiker, or anything… Just 'who are you?!' " His hand came up against the center of the older man's chest, splayed fingers digging into the crisp green cotton of Yohji's shirt.

Alarmed, Ken found himself breaking Yohji's hold with a quick _pick, pinch, twist._ The startled wire man was two steps back, out of reach of the trembling swordsman, before he knew what hit him. The determined brunet said firmly, "I'd better talk to him alone. Okay? This is getting out of hand."

"Not until we get some answers, damn it. Aya, why? Why are you acting this way? This whole 'killing is wrong thing.' Okay, so I can see you got it from the guy in the book, but it's not _you_." Knocked out of his customary, jaded ennui, Yohji's eyes flashed with intensity, and his wide mouth tightened with a mixture of hurt and concern.

"B- book?" whispered Aya, the little color that remained draining from his already pale features. "You found it?"

"Yeah, if you mean this…?" Half-turning, the blond plucked the volume from the cluttered table. At the sight of the garish cover, the normally graceful swordsman staggered and would have fallen if Ken hadn't grabbed him by the elbow.

"Aya!" Frantic, he braced himself to receive the slender man's full weight, but it didn't come. Instead, his teammate wrenched himself free and began pacing in agitation. Aya's voice was hoarse and barely audible, more as if he were speaking to an audience of one – himself – than to his assembled partners, "I read it, over and over… I had nothing else to do. I have no idea how long I was there… You said three weeks total. I was unconscious for the first four days. After my escape attempt, they took away my bag, my clothes. That knocks off another week, leaving me ten days. Do you know how many times I read that book? A dozen times? More? I had nothing else to occupy my mind with. I thought I would go insane. I would count the time by how many pages I had read… but after a while the words ran together in my head. I was hearing them constantly! …Constantly… 'wash away my sins… I will not kill again…' Over and over!" The increasingly hysterical whisper choked, becoming a whimper. "I will not kill."

Ken and Omi stared, stricken, as the agitated man stopped dead in his pacing, bringing his clenched fist to his mouth. He bit savagely at his own knuckles, stifling the harsh, whispered refrain. The wide eyes were unseeing and wild. When Ken kicked a chair out of the way, shoving it back with a discordant _skree_ of wood on wood, the younger Weiss' hand shot out, intercepting him. "No!" he hissed, "Don't."

A shudder ran through Aya's frame, beginning with his taut shoulders and rippling down the thin body until Ken thought that his knees would give way, and he would collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. He blinked, focusing suddenly on the book where it lay abandoned on the table top. The words that poured out were so swift that they slurred, running together, "I will not kill. To kill is an abomination. I will atone for my sins, and sin no more. I. Will. Not. Kill." The swift strike of his hand slapped the garish volume across the room, the crack of its impact into the cabinets sharp as a gunshot in the enclosed space of Villa Weiss' kitchen.

Omi's fingers tightened on Ken's wrist, holding him back. Aya shook himself, like a dog showering his surroundings with excess wet, except that in his case, it was a surfeit of thoughts. His head jerked up, violet eyes abruptly sharp and clear, mouth compressed until the lips turned white with the strain of holding in the words, or maybe, a scream. The teenager stepped slowly around his brunet friend, taking care to not move suddenly. Faint shivers racked the swordsman's lean body, tiny twitches and quivers as if he had ants crawling at random on his sensitized skin. "Aya…?" Omi asked softly. "Can you hear me?" For a moment, it seemed that the redhead would ignore the cautious approach, then he registered the presence of another human.

"What do you want?" Aya asked tonelessly. The shift in his attention outward, to Omi, calmed him, draining some of the tenseness from his rigid body.

Omi carefully reached out, taking up his bitten hand and carefully examining it. There was a tiny bit of blood, but nothing else appeared to be the matter, and the smaller Hunter released it. "Aya, do you remember what brain-washing is? I think you've basically brain-washed yourself. But think; you know that you're not Himura Kenshin. The forgetfulness, the guilt… Yes, we've sinned, and I'm sure that we'll have to atone for it someday…. But it's not the same; we're not the same." Omi paused and took a deep breath. "Come on, Aya. Let it go."

Aya could do a sudden spate of words, angry or bitter as the mood seized him, but calm and rational generally wasn't in his vocabulary, at least not when it came to explaining his thought processes. It was a measure of how distraught he was that he actually answered Omi civilly, even if it was heavy with despair.

"How can I let it go…? This is what I am, Omi. A murderer. Just a murderer."

* * *

In an oddly tender gesture, Aya smoothed the stained cover of the book resting in his lap, seated quietly at their kitchen table. Maybe it hadn't been the best thing that Omi had dragged Yohji off, ostensibly to work on Manx's information dump, but in reality letting Ken take over 'handling' Aya. Not a good idea, at all… Whether the older man accepted Omi's injunction to 'let it go,' or not, the critical thing that remained was that Ken was standing on top of Krakatoa, and it was August 25th, 1883. While Aya might not literally blow with the same force as the infamous volcano, anybody within range was still likely to wind up a bloodied mess.

But he had to start somewhere, right? Unnerved, Ken nodded at the shabby volume. "So, ah, I notice that the guy the book is about was described as having red hair and purple eyes. Any relation?"

Their own redheaded assassin shrugged minutely, not particularly interested. "I have no idea. The hair color appears once or twice in a generation among the Fujimiya… I suppose Himura could be an ancestor." His dulled voice was exhausted.

"Oh." That Aya didn't seem to think that it was anything significant left him feeling a bit at a loss. "So, I guess that Benson-creep was just blowing smoke when he made those cracks about you not being your father's kid, huh?"

The worn book dropped to the floor with a thud. Ken barely registered that Aya had moved, reaching over the table to grab, until his hard fingers were digging into the younger Hunter's shoulders. Incensed, the redhead demanded, "What did you say!"

Futilely, Ken tried to free himself, but short of offering violence, there was no escape. If anything, the fingers dug deeper, sparking pain in the abused joints. "Fuck it, Aya! Not again! That hurts!" he protested.

"Repeat what you said." Feral anger lent the normally sexy depths a dangerous edge. Instinct warned Ken that he was on shaky ground. The bad part was that he wasn't sure which part of his off-handed remark had set off his twitchy partner this time. Carefully, he said, "Um, you didn't look like your dad's kid?"

"What else?" The growl was accompanied by a quick shake, like what a terrier would give to a rat. Ken's own temper began a slow burn over the treatment, but he bottled the urge to strike back.

"Benson. That asshole knew your parents."

Aya jerked as though the words had solid weight, and were hard punches thrown to the body. His hands spasmed, and grew lax, falling away from Ken. "Benson… How… how did you know about him?"

Concern furrowed the brunet's forehead. Something wasn't adding up right. The contrary man had gone from controlling hard-ass back to looking like he wanted to vomit, all in the space of two minutes. Suspicion caught up to Ken's mouth, by-passing his brain, and he blurted, "Oh, God! Benson – Yohji _was_ right. He did rape you!"

"What?" Flat astonishment pulled Aya back from where ever his mind had wandered to, and his violet gaze sharpened until the athlete felt like something scraped from the bottom of his teammate's shoes. He flushed, holding both hands up in hasty surrender. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to be so tactless." But at least the faux pas had switched the man back into his 'sane' mode. Or whatever passed for it. Aya was really beginning to frighten him with the way he shifted so unpredictably from one extreme to another.

Scowling, the other man rose effortlessly and stalked over to the refrigerator. As he selected a bottle of juice, he tossed back, "I won't pretend that I was pleased with Benson's demands, but it wasn't rape, Ken. I went to him voluntarily."

"You—Voluntarily?" It came out in a squeak better suited to Omi's voice than his own. The nausea he had felt the first time, when they had listened to the obscenity that was the American forcing Aya to suck him off, returned with a vengeance. But the line of Aya's back, and the vague, unfocused, thoughtful stare that he leveled on the black rectangle of the kitchen's window supported his claim: it wasn't the sex that absorbed him. The sex really was meaningless. But he couldn't just let it go. "Aya, _why_?"

Exasperated, Aya sighed. He drained the last swallows from the bottle, chucking the empty container at the trash before turning to stare at the bewildered athlete. "Look, sex is just sex. It's meaningless if you don't care about the person you're with. You're forgetting that my first real team was Crashers; trust me, compared to some of their methods for getting close to a target, what happened with Benson was nothing."

_Nothing…?_ Bile rose in his mouth; Ken gulped.

The redhead ran a frustrated hand back through the short lengths of his hair before trying again, his tone more gentle. "Please, Ken. You're losing sight of what's important here. That I can be with someone, isn't it. Shion, and the others at the Aoba in Sendai toughened me, and taught me the art of the sword. My first team, Crashers, showed me that I could go to a party or a club, and blend in. That I could be invisible, just like any other customer or guest. And Weiss, Weiss gave me my revenge, and finally made it possible for me to move past personal anger, and to think only of the Beasts that we hunt. The missions that we took had a purpose, Ken. And that was what mattered."

Slowly, Ken got to his own feet and approached his older partner. Aya could be eloquent when the mood struck him. Obviously, this had to be important for him to spend to many words expressing himself, and Ken's understanding likewise had to be something that the subdued assassin desired. "Then… okay, I don't get it. If it wasn't the sex, then what importance did Benson have? Is he the one who had you kidnapped?"

"No. I confirmed that he was safely out of the country before I completed my report on the art auction that I attended. I am certain that he had nothing to do with my abductors." Aya's quiet voice grew rougher, deeper. "What I should have done, however, was to have listened to my instincts, and killed him, while I still had the heart to do it."

"What?" It was Ken's turn to be completely baffled. He was close enough to the swordsman to touch, but the stiff body language discouraged it. "I don't get it. If it's not the sex, then what's bothering you?"

"My name. He said my real name. On a mission." Aya's low tones shook with suppressed disgust. "And I let him walk out of there with that knowledge."

The clipped words were as good as an electric shock, jerking Ken sharply back and upright. Shit, he had been unconsciously leaning toward the slender figure in its ugly/shabby sweater, letting the events of the previous day warp his judgement. Yes, he had kissed Aya, and the surprisingly passionate man had responded in kind, but that had no bearing on the current conversation. Quite the opposite, given the vehemence with which Aya dismissed the topic now. _It means nothing._ Ken held firmly to the thought, focusing on the here and now. And that meant paying attention only to Benson's discovery of Aya's cover persona. Breathing in deeply, the soccer player tried to use reason. "Okay. Look, who would he have bothered to tell? And why? Birman figured that he was satisfied to have one-upped you, and that after the auction, he could have cared less about your existence."

"I don't know." The swordsman gave in to his desire to fidget and began pacing the length of the kitchen. On his second traversal, he stopped dead in front of Ken glaring hotly. Aya had stiffened even farther, if that was possible, until his clenched muscles virtually vibrated from the strain. "You heard us. You listened to a recording." he accused.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't like it was on purpose!" Defensive, Ken countered. He could feel the slow burn of a hard blush beginning around his ears, and spreading across his cheekbones and nose. This was so _not_ the conversation that he wanted to be having. Standing stock-still in front of him, Aya made no motion toward backing down, and Ken sighed miserably. "But, y- yeah… Your mic activated, and Kritiker caught the whole thing."

"Shit." The muttered expletive sounded weird coming from the tight-lipped assassin, but then Aya was leaning out the kitchen door, bellowing "OMI!!" up the stairs. The startled thud of feet hitting the floor and coming their way at warp speed made the athlete blink at the older man in baffled confusion. Aya took it in, and snarled back, "_Benson_. I used _both_ names, my own and my cover's. He addressed me as 'Fujimiya,' and like an idiot, I tried to convince him that I was 'Fujita Masahiro.' "

Ken didn't understand the fit of rage that gripped his companion, but it provoked a corresponding shout from him none the less. "But… he left for the States. Birman cleared him. There was _no connection to anyone!_"

"_You_ heard us. What if someone else was listening, as well?"

"In a _bathroom_?" Ken hated the way his voice squeaked, turning the last word disbelieving, incredulous.

"Why not?" Aya retorted swiftly. Omi's footsteps were flying down the steps, closely followed by the more deliberate tread of the other blond. The redhead turned back and glared. "Trust me, one thing I learned in Crashers is that people are incredibly stupid in restrooms. With that illusion of privacy, it's the perfect place to surveil, to get the goods on someone. They snort cocaine, engage in sex-- " The disgust in his tone deepened, becoming more self-mocking. " –in short, anything. If you want to catch someone with their hands in the cookie jar, the restroom is the place."

"What's wrong?!" Winded, Omi burst into the room and skidded to a stop. He hovered, looking uncertainly from one to the other of his friends, alarm written clearly on his good-natured features. Yohji arrived a moment later, muttering "This is getting old – you guys yelling, and us running…" and leaned carelessly against the doorframe.

"Me." Aya replied tersely. "I'm the one who blew my cover. At the art auction."

"Holy shit." Yohji dropped heavily into a chair at the table, fumbled for a cigarette, and lit up. His long legs were splayed out beneath the cover of the table. "Okay, someone. Take it from the top, would you?" Aya complied, repeating their conversation in clipped. angry words. When he was done, Yohji ran a hand through his wavy hair, pulling it back from his forehead. "Jesus, Aya." he said admiringly. "When you fuck up, you do it in a big way. So, in a rest room. The one place that should be private."

Ken caught himself before he could confirm the statement. Aya no longer seemed to be listening to him, but rather was thinking furiously, his angular auburn brows drawn down into a tight frown. His head shot up, violet and silver clashing with Yohji's heavy-lidded green. "The question is, who?"

Shrugging wryly, the blond kept his eyes locked with Aya's. But the humor was only skin deep, because when he spoke, his manner was anything but amused. "The most likely answer is the people who ran the art show. They would have wanted to know if there was anything screwy going on. Me, I'd've had my own people mingle with the guests, just to be on the safe side. Did you notice anybody like that?"

Something about the man's professional tone defused Aya's angry tenseness. To Ken's astonishment, he actually returned to the table and sat. Omi slid into his usual spot, and, while his fingers itched to start taking notes on his laptop, he forewent the opportunity, relying instead on his prodigious memory as his bright eyes flickered between the two men. Aya considered the question for a long moment, and finally replied with his normal, deliberate calm. "Yes. I identified two men, and one woman."

Yohji nodded encouragingly. That matched the recording that they had browbeaten Birman into giving them access to. Alertly intelligent, the frivolous playboy was completely gone, together with a good portion of the man's careless, lazy manner. "Uh, huh. They were local talent, right?"

"Yes. A cut above the usual hired muscled, as would be expected in an environment such as that hotel, but yes." The frown had smoothed itself from Aya's handsome face, and he seemed nearly relaxed. Awed, Ken glanced at Yohji, who remained focused on the swordsman with genuine interest. The sincerity _couldn't_ be faked.

"Hm. No surprise there. How about the guy running the show? There were some high rollers in that crowd; he must have been somebody good. Did Birman have any names for you? Or did you pick anything up while you were there?" Yohji asked. He propped one ankle on the opposite knee, his exposed wrist and open hand loosely on top, and leaned forward slightly. The implication was that anything Aya had noticed was worth hearing about, and that Yohji was offering no threats. The redhead's gaze dropped, and he stared thoughtfully at the wood grain of the table, idly reaching out to scrap the metal edge of his splint across it. It made the barest rasping sound.

"A local man, Hisadae, was fronting for the real sellers. He was on the list of individuals I was to keep an eye on during both the show and the auction, in an effort to identify those he dealt with. But I never saw him with anyone other than the buyers, or a handful of his own flunkies. I don't know who was behind the auction. Birman hadn't included any information concerning the money's destination in my briefing packet. I wonder if Manx would know." Aya replied abstractedly.

Out of their line of sight, Omi caught Ken's eye and mouthed _Wow._ 'Wow' was right. The former soccer player had watched Yohji flirt with and cajole any number of school girls and waitresses, even a policeman once, when he had gotten pulled over for speeding, but he had never seen the full Kudoh treatment work on their resident prick before. For some reason, Aya was relaxing enough to let Yohji inside his automatic defenses, and as a result, the younger Hunters were witnesses to a definite rarity in the history of Weiss: a debriefing that was proceeding as smooth as silk.

"It was a lot of cash that they raked in, wasn't it?" Yohji asked curiously. "I mean, I'm no expert on art, but shit, even I recognized some of the names you listed off."

"Yes." The affirmative came automatically. "At a rough estimate, the sale raised close to two billion yen. Benson alone dropped something like one-point-two million U.S. on his purchases."

The senior Hunter whistled thoughtfully. "A total of over eighteen million U.S.? I wonder where all of that went? Do you suppose, seeing as a lot of the stuff up for sale was stolen from former Soviet block countries, or disappeared around there during World War II, that the real sellers might have something to do with the people that Manx said had Communist connections?"

Ken held his breath; this was the point where Aya would either explode, or freak, because the PI was asking obliquely about his abductors.

The steady gaze that Aya leveled on Yohji said that he had arrived at the same conclusion. Then the remarkable, shadowed violet eyes drifted closed, and he exhaled, shuddering a little. "Yes. Yes, I do."

* * *

The others were gone, again leaving Ken alone with Aya. The weary set of the redhead's shoulders told that he had – once more – driven himself beyond the limits of his endurance. Without giving it any thought, the likewise tired brunet circled the table and dropped down onto his knees in front of the man. Aya barely glanced up in acknowledgment of his presence.

"Want to talk about it?" Ken asked simply. The wine-dark head gave a tiny shake, light glancing off its sleek strands. His expression was shuttered, soft lips pressed tight together against whatever thoughts roiled within.

Ken let his own gaze drop to the hands that lay limply across Aya's thighs. He rubbed a thumb thoughtfully over the cold backs of the prominent knuckles, then gathered a hand into his own, intending to chaff a little more warmth back into it.

Matched finger to finger, Ken's was broader, more muscular, while Aya's slim white fingers tapered to callused tips that were a good bit longer than his. But both of them had the strong wrists of men who fought for their lives, Ken with hand-to-hand, and Aya with his katana. It took a lot of power to swing the weight of a sword with the precise force that the red haired kenkaya used, shearing through flesh and bone with the same ease. To cut with a sword was not a weakling's art. Ken rolled the unresisting wrist over, and pressed a gentle kiss to its pulse point.

Killers' hands, the both of them.

If he thought about what he was doing too much, he would probably end up running screaming out the back door, and on down the mountain. Ken nuzzled the old marks of scars, faint ridges that showed a more opaque white against the fragile skin. It was as if he could feel the burning of the blood beneath the thin covering, moving with each stuttering beat of the heart. Absorbed, half-dreaming, the younger man set the sharp point of his canines against the surface of the raised vein, pressing until he felt a flinch. He hadn't broken the skin, just left an indentation, but he licked at it gently. Ken spoke quietly.

"Aya…? I won't leave you alone, okay? Not ever."

Ken had given his word.

God help him.

**

* * *

Author's Notes:**

All right, everybody, sit back down. No screaming at the writer.

This is _NOT_ a Weiss Kreuz / Rurouni Kenshin cross over fic.

Oh, I admit that when I was in the planning stages, I did a lot of muttering to that effect. But it isn't. A few months ago, as I was mulling over the strangeness of an anime universe that made it possible to have two entirely separate series about a red haired assassin, it struck me that there were many similarities between Aya and Kenshin. But more importantly, there are many differences, for they exist not only in two different time periods, but in two different sets of circumstances.

I have to send a hearty 'thank you!' to the friends that have put up with my pondering on politics and morals, and on killing as a solution to political and social problems. I appreciate all the times that you've wanted to throw things at me, but have stayed your hands.

I hope you don't regret it when you read "Reflections."

For those of you who are familiar with my research habits and love of cookies, fine, yes, I confess that they're all over this chapter, too. And I'm giving in and putting a bibliography with chapter 12. I've held out this long, but I can't sob control myself any longer. With the exception of Kenshin, the historical figures named in this chapter were real. So was the cry of "Heaven's Revenge."

**The Meiji Restoration** / W.G. Beasley. Stanford, Calif. : Stanford University Press, 1972. ISBN 0804708150. _Well-written, broad, neutral overview of the Meiji Restoration._

**Choshu in the Meiji Restoration** / Albert M. Craig. Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1961. Reprinted 2000 by Lexington Press. ISBN 0739101935. _In-depth analysis of the political and historical role of Choshu han in the Restoration. _

**Samurai Sketches : From the Bloody Final Years of the Shogun** / Romulus Hillsborough. San Francisco, Calif. : Ridgeback Press, c2001. ISBN 0966740181. _A somewhat sensationalized series of biographical sketches of the players during the Restoration. If you enjoy RK, you will probably get a kick out of Hillsborough's work._


	13. Chapter 13: Comfort

**Reflections: Comfort **

_Chapter 13_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

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_I won't leave you alone. Not ever._

A shiver rolled down Aya's slim body, and his eyes squeezed shut in reflexive defense against a tide of emotion that threatened to swamp him. As it was, his mouth twisted briefly in pain.

A momentary panic made Ken wonder if he had gone too far with his promise, but it had felt so right, and he had nothing else to go on than his gut response. His gut said 'mine,' and his heart and soul seconded the sentiment with a fierce possessiveness that would have surprised him only a few days earlier. But now… Now, he couldn't care less.

"I don't have the energy for this." Aya said dully. The kneeling brunet shrugged as best he could, answering easily.

"So what? You don't have to. Let me take care of you." With luck, the weary man wouldn't guess how much it was costing Ken to keep his tone light. The searching gaze seemed to see right down to the bottom of his soul.

Finally, Aya shrugged as well. "All right." he replied simply. It was hard to tell if he was giving his trust, or if he was just too tired to care, or to resist any more. Either way, it was a relief to not have to fight him. Ken rocked back onto his heels and stood up, extending both hands to the fey creature that made no move to push him away.

But neither did he accept the proffered hands.

"Aya…?"

"Why do you bother?" he sighed. For a second, the man seemed genuinely interested, but it wavered under a tide of exhaustion. Aya stood up on his own, without benefit of Ken's aid, and began a slow march toward the stairs. Ken shadowed him, ready to catch him if he stumbled, literally or figuratively. A glare stopped the athlete in his tracks, and he had to struggle against a sheepish grin as he held his hands up in silent apology.

Ken was used to the silent grace that characterized Aya's movements; it was strange to see him plod up the steps like an ordinary mortal. And even more strange when they stopped together at the door to Ken's room. One tilted, scarlet brow quirked up to inquire just how far the offer to 'take care of' extended, and the shorter brunet found himself reaching around a slim, sweater-clad torso to open his own bedroom door. He sketched a bow, and stepped back, prepared to keep his distance in case it meant that Aya's sense of humor was turning to Three Stoodges routines. Worn out or not, the redhead shot him an amused glance.

Aya was in his room. The breath squeezed from Ken's lungs. Oh, God, what was he _doing_?

Having the handsome swordsman standing, patiently waiting for his fellow assassin to stop gaping and _do something_, was a bit rich. Suddenly self-conscious, Ken muttered a vague apology and began trying to straighten up some of the clutter. The furnishings were simple, just like those of the other three rooms: a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a small desk, and a matching chair. Except that his room had already acquired an assortment of strayed dishes from the kitchen downstairs, and his much-loved, ratty maroon Antler's jersey was draped carelessly across the foot-board of his bed. A hand intercepted him, grasping his shoulder and forcing Ken to stop in his tracks. Astounded, he looked up to see what had gotten into the owner of the fingers impeding him.

"Ken… leave it be." The low, husky tones went straight past the brunet's brain, and did something to other parts of him… Jesus Christ; Aya had voluntarily accompanied him to his bedroom. He opened his mouth to protest, and was stopped by the sight of an unnatural pallor, and the dark shadows beneath twilight-hued eyes.

_Leave it be_.

_Just like Omi's 'let it go.' _Only, this time it was directed at an abashed young man whose days of dreaming of pro-soccer were long gone… He couldn't afford vanity. Not about something stupid like how clean and tidy his room was. Quietly, Ken sighed. There was no point in arguing; he had lost days ago. And, more importantly, if they were going to go along to help flush the rat from the police department out into the open, they would both need some rest. Getting bent out of shape over whether his room was presentable enough would have to wait.

Because Aya couldn't. Now that Ken was really paying attention, he could see how haggard the older Hunter had become. More than just dark circles under his eyes made it obvious just how far he had pushed himself; there was a fine and constant tremor in the long limbs, and what little skin was left exposed around the bulky armor of his sweater was unhealthily gray. "Hey," Moved to pity, Ken tried to dredge up a reassuring smile. "I guess this means you're spending the night, huh?"

"Something like that." was the dry reply.

In spite of himself, the soccer player felt an answering, rueful chuckle bubble up in his chest. "Hmm. Well, I did say I'd take care of you. Let's get you nice and relaxed, and off to sleep, okay?"

That earned him a lift of both eyebrows, politely disbelieving, and Ken blew out a deep breath, lifting his own shaggy bangs momentarily. A part of him was desperate to see if Aya _would_ stay… and if he would do it in Ken's bed. But another part was saying that what he had in mind was inappropriate to the deep massage techniques that he had learned. And, regretfully, just at the moment Aya looked as if he needed the chance to sleep in comfort far more than Ken needed to indulge his libido. Indecisive, the athlete scratched at the back of his neck, then felt a lift as his eyes lit on a flabby old cushion on the floor. It would do.

It was almost worth seeing the faint consternation on the redhead's face when he trotted back and plopped the flower-patterned pillow at his feet. "Okay, Aya… Peel off that sweater and have a seat."

Schooled to careful blankness, Aya knelt, automatically slipping into what Ken thought of as a swordsman's pose: knees slightly apart, heels tucked neatly under his rump. The sweater, as ordered, came up over his head, momentarily eclipsing the startling red hair as it revealed a sliver of marble-pale stomach at the hem of his under shirt. Quartered, folded, he dropped the garment to the side and sat, hands loosely on his thighs and attention fixed on the far wall.

So much for enjoying Aya's consternation, Ken thought. He blew out another breath, cheeks puffed, and stared at the erect back, clad in a thin, black turtleneck. Well… nothing ventured, nothing gained. And Aya _was_ there voluntarily, right? He dropped to his knees behind the distant man, and licked suddenly dry lips. Maybe if he tried to talk them both through this…?

"Okay… You know what Shiatsu is, right? With you sitting up, I can't give you the full treatment, but this should help you unwind, and to wake up without too many aches and pains from being stressed out. Um…" Ken's hand hovered indecisively. _I can do this… it's not like I've never touched him before._ "The first step is to 'make contact' with the receiver. This enables the giver to engage with the receiver's 'ki', or energy, and helps to establish a physical rapport between the two people." His hands settled onto Aya's back, splayed fingers covering his shoulder blades.

The rapidly cooling cotton of the turtleneck beneath his palms molded itself to the hard muscles. As the heat fled, faint shivers danced across the unwilling flesh, and up Ken's forearms. He could almost hear Aya's teeth chattering over the soft, measured _tick, tick… _of the clock on his desk. If there was one thing that his passion for soccer had taught him, it was how to give a good massage. To start with, it had been just a consequence of playing in all kinds of weather, and all sorts of field conditions; players got hurt, and strained joints and pulled muscles had to be dealt with. That he had a knack for it made Ken popular, even before he started to make it big and got scouted for the J-League

It had been one of the things that Kase especially loved about him, and at that thought, his hands faltered. But Kase was gone, dead and gone. And that was Ken's fault, too.

Don't think about it.

Stroking his hands down the firm length, the brunet called up the explanation from a class he had taken, back when Kase and he were still playing in the minors. It felt like a lifetime ago, although it couldn't have been more than five years… just before he had been old enough to sign and go pro. He spoke as much to his first love's memory, as to the stiff back in front of him, " 'Palming the energy channels can be very supportive, bringing the receiver's attention to where it's needed…' Or, something like that… Shit, I was never too good at all this theory crap." There was suggestion of a different tremor under Ken's hands.

" 'Receiver's attention?' " The almost-laughter sounded good, really good, and Ken's mouth jumped in an answering, goofy grin. Given that _everywhere_ he touched was equally tensed, it seemed that the message was that he could pretty much have his pick of body parts. Crouched behind Aya, one knee lightly resting on the edge of the flowered cushion, Ken gently pressed his elbow into the lean back at the upper edge of Aya's shoulder blade, and wrapping his other arm across the black-clad chest, gripped the redhead's biceps and pulled. As Aya's arm swung inward, across his chest, the shoulder blade opened, exposing his knotted muscles to the insistent pressure. A sharp inhalation, cut off before it could actually become sound, was the only indication that the Shiatsu had accomplished anything.

Smiling, Ken continued. Aya was pliant, and agreeable, allowing himself to be moved and positioned as if he were a life-sized, jointed doll. But, with typical obstinacy, he wasn't a whole lot more relaxed than he had been at the beginning. Even when Ken turned, tucking his chin below the line across the top edge of Aya's shoulders, and again wrapped an arm across the man's chest, there was no overt resistance, just the steady sense of Aya being himself, reserved and watchful. The younger athlete resisted the urge to shake his head ruefully, braced his fist against that flexible spine, and bent the redhead back into a bow.

The remarkable, almost feline-shaped eyes fluttered open, and Aya whispered, "You stopped telling me what you were doing."

Surprised into muteness, Ken raised his head and looked down into the shimmering violet depths. They were so close together that the faint, weary puffiness to the lids, and the nearly bruised shadows surrounding those eyes were drowned by cool, twilight colors. As he stared, the pupils dilated minutely, and the slanted eyes widened.

Ken had absolutely no idea what had provoked the response.

The slender man was still bowed back over his arm, and not withstanding the vulnerability of that position, he was as unresisting as ever. But there was no sense that the swordsman was helpless. His slim hands, fingers curved gently, still rested limply on his thighs, but they didn't need a katana to be deadly. Aya was as much an assassin as Ken, never mind his recent declaration that he wouldn't kill. Belatedly, a fluttering certainty that he had lost control of the massage crossing his mind, Ken licked his dry lips. "Uh, yeah… I guess I did. Stop, I mean."

"I thought you were going to make me relax." The low, throaty baritone did interesting things to Ken's insides. Unthinkingly, he sank down till he sat on his shins, turned at right angles to the red haired man arched over his lap. Following, Aya formed the smooth line of a taut bow, from knees to throat, exposed. The position lifted his buttocks from off his heels, transferring his weight to where Ken's closed fist pressed against his supple spine, grinding the knuckles of his hand against the corded muscles paralleling the bone.

The position was designed to extend the spine, and open the ribcage, encouraging good breathing habits and posture. Yet, somehow, Ken didn't think this was what the masters had had in mind, as the sleek and slender body bent back. Aya's Adams apple worked subtly, just clearing the edge of his turtleneck's collar, translucent-white stark against dead black. Thin, too thin, really, with the faint hollows between each rib clearly defined through the shirt, and the whipcord muscle that lay over his torso. By contrast, Ken was covered with pads of dense muscle, concealing the bone structure beneath. But with his smaller frame, the effect was deceptive, so that clothed, he didn't look all that much better developed than Omi. Still, no matter how he looked, the athlete was plenty strong enough when it came to supporting the redhead bodily. He pressed the spread fingers of one hand across the gap between the sharp shoulder blades, taking the weight easily.

But Ken still nearly dropped the man when one slim armed snaked up, wrapping around his neck.

Heat stole away the brunet's breath when tender lips brushed his. For a wild, confused instant, he thought he had fallen through a time/space warp, and the lean form belonged to some alien interloper, a changling, but the heart beating hard against Ken's felt human, and vitally alive. Hard fingers threaded themselves into shaggy, sun-streaked hair, tugging insistently to bring his lower lip into position for a sharp nip. The bruising force startled Ken into a harsh gasp, parting his lips to a slick tongue that cajoled and teased, probing deep into his mouth. For a bare, frantic second, Ken wondered what had happened to keeping the massage on a professional level.

Fumbling, his broader hand rubbed over the thin cotton knit of the turtleneck, feeling the hardening bud of a nipple sharp against the insubstantial curve of a flatter, masculine breast. Under his touch, Aya jerked, silently encouraging, even as his teeth closed on the tip of Ken's tongue, the burst of pain mingling with a discordant, gasping inhalation and the stab of pure, unadulterated lust.

The fingers wound into the brunet hair twisted sharply, controlling the depth of their kiss. Sobbing, Ken allowed the clever, teasing touch of the hot tongue to draw his own out, and let the wet mouth suck at him until they were twining and dueling in the heat of Aya's.

Shaking, the younger man's hands fisted, one into the back of the black turtleneck, the other into its front. The punishing kiss was making him dizzy, sucking away his ability to think rationally. This was radically different from their mutual sessions in Aya's bed with Omi; the passion had been there then, as well, but leashed… banked under layers of control until Ken had been trembling with conflicting impulses, and he had had a sense that Aya, too, had been holding back.

He was definitely not holding back this time.

Aya's remaining hand was busy elsewhere, doing something with nearly furtive rustles and soft creakings of leather. Distracted, Ken barely registered a metallic jingle and _hiss_, starting when strong fingers closed on his wrist, yanking his grasp free from the distorted knit covering the man's lean chest. Guided, Ken's blind fingers closed over heated velvet, feeling it firm into steel.

_Oh, God…!_

Had Aya really done what he thought he had-- ? The swordsman's narrow hips jerked up, thrusting into their joined hands. Sticky-wet, feverishly hot, the hardening flesh in Ken's grasp contrasted with the nearly ticklish brush of crisp curls and the rough rasp of jeans fabric and the teeth of a zipper. An echoing arousal tightened the younger man's groin, painfully sharp with need. Aya… he had Aya bucking with increasingly frantic, erratic urgency under his touch, grinding his flexing shoulders back against Ken's splayed hand and lap, rubbing the younger man's own wrist across his own aching, burning flesh.

The silent, shuddering, spasming release was almost anticlimactic. Despite the tremors that racked his thin frame, Aya was perfectly silent, reminding Ken that the only time he had head the redhead make a sound was the single, faint whine of frustration that he had given when he had had both Omi and Ken in his bed.

Collapsing back, finally, Aya was relaxed.

Ken froze, confusion making his head spin. A last hot dribble from the man's softening erection forming sticky threads between the soccer player's hand and Aya's belly. The redhead's limp hands fell to either side onto the flowered cushion, as his unresisting weight lay across the younger man.

What the hell had just happened?

A sharp cramp in Ken's calf forced him to move with gingerly care, to shove aside the bewildered, queasy uncertainty that flooded him. Suddenly awkward and self-conscious, he averted his eyes from the soft, dusky violet organ in his trembling hand, automatically tucking it back inside the gaping fly of Aya's unfastened pants. Lightly slapping Aya's bent legs got the slim man to slowly uncoil, straightening the long limbs. The exquisite lavender and pewter eyes were half-lidded, unfocused and vague, overcome by the combined release of sex and too many days of stress and exhaustion.

Ken wadded up the hem of the soiled shirt, and carefully rolled it up the lax body. Aya wasn't actively helping, but at least he wasn't hindering Ken's efforts to get him to sit up; the drowsy redhead even raised his arms obligingly enough, and struggled up to stand when the shorter brunet tugged at him. The man nearly fell into Ken's bed, curling loosely onto his side and drifting into deeper slumber. For a long moment, the shaking athlete simply stood, staring down at the beautiful face, and the pale, muscular body, bewildered by the mix of scars and bruises, and perfect marble smoothness.

Aya had used him.

Ken examined the conclusion thoughtfully, and then decided that he didn't care.

It _still_ hadn't been enough.

**_breakabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzbreak_**

"Hey, Kenken… You awake?"

"Hn?" Muzzily, Ken floundered his way back to consciousness. He wasn't at his most coherent when first waking up, under the best of circumstances, and the emotional roller coaster represented by a certain redhead could in no way be considered 'best.' He blinked repeatedly until the blurry form standing over the bed resolved itself into Yohji, still clad in his green button-down shirt, sunglasses pushed up into his wavy, honey-dark hair. "Uh… izzit time?" he mumbled vaguely.

"For the mission briefing? No. But I do want to talk to you. Privately."

"Oh… okay." There was a surprisingly solid weight lying across his middle, preventing him from crawling out of bed. Or moving, for that matter. Feeling stupid, Ken glanced down, and found a familiar head of scarlet and claret colored hair lying on his sternum, and a pale, muscular arm thrown across his abdomen. With the sheet thrown haphazardly across at waist level, exposing both of their bare torsos to the chilly air, it suddenly dawned on Ken that it looked as if he and Aya were naked. Which meant that Yohji was undoubtedly assuming the worst. An angry burn heated Ken's chest, spreading uncomfortably to twist his gut, and clench his fists.

Except that the older man wasn't doing or saying anything. No snide remarks, no knowing winks… Nothing. If anything, the expression on his face was unaccountably grave. A serious Kudoh was the equivalent to sighting a yeti in the wild: an unexpected and unnerving event. It drained the fight from the temperamental athlete like water running out of a sieve. If Yohji was standing in his room, looking like that, probably believing that he was interrupting a post-sex cuddle, it probably meant that there was something very, very wrong. Hastily, Ken slithered out from under his still out-cold bedmate, blessing whatever saints had made them fall asleep while he still had pants on. Yohji might be acting like a mature adult, but there was no point in Ken pushing his luck.

The older Hunter turned on his heel, leading the way out of Ken's bedroom without comment. Baffled, and growing worried, the brunet snagged his shirt from the floor and dragged it on over his head as he followed. The second the door closed behind them, he demanded, "What's going on?"

"Not here." Shaking his head, Yohji led down the hall to his own room, and gestured for Ken to precede him.

"Okay. Now, spill." growled the younger man, his defensive instincts screaming _trouble_, and urging him to get back to where he belonged, at Aya's side,

Yohji eyed him thoughtfully, taking in the way he shifted into a fighting stance, body curling slightly forward as he rocked onto the balls of his feet, and said dryly, "Relax, sweet cheeks… I'm not gonna come between you and your honey, now that you've finally quit pretending you didn't want him."

Appalled, Ken jerked back. Not that it wasn't true, but he really didn't need to hear it put _that_ way. "Yohji!" he protested, "It's not-- "

"Oh, shut up." The blond sighed good-naturedly. "I'm not gonna tease you about your raging hormones, or anything, so chill. I just want your opinion: do you think Aya's up to going on this little adventure of ours? That's all."

"He's-- " The words stalled. Ken wanted to shout 'of course!' but the truth was, he wasn't sure. One minute, their teammate was a shattered wreck, the next he was a hostile, bitter asshole. And Ken couldn't tell where the defense mechanisms left off, and the real Aya began. Miserable, he admitted, "I don't know, Yohji. I want to say 'he's fine,' but I just don't know. He's been hurt really bad, and I have absolutely no idea what's gonna set him off. He could be fine, or he could be about to go into a total melt-down."

"Right." A gusty sigh underscored the frustration wrapped up in that single syllable. Yohji tossed his sunglasses onto the nightstand beside his bed and flopped down crossways on the mattress, his long legs dangling to the floor. "Jesus, Ken… do we take him with us, or leave him here at the Villa?"

Disconsolate, the brunet dropped down to sit on the foot-end of the bed. He trained his eyes on the coverlet, and began absently tracing the lines of stitching that quilted its layers together. His fingertip was on its third circuit around the pattern when he muttered, "He's not going to be willing to stay behind, you do realize that? This is Aya's fight, not ours."

"Yeah." Yohji agreed, addressing his comments to the ceiling overhead. "We may never know exactly what happened to him, Omi's theory about self-induced brainwashing aside, but either way, Aya's gotta have some closure. He has to face up to those people, or he'll never get over it."

"So… He's still going, right? He's still your backup?"

The senior Hunter gave a humorless bark of laughter. "Yeah, I guess he is. God help us both." He was silent for a long moment, then a throaty, genuine chuckle eased out. "So, did you two finally do it?"

"Yoh—ji!" Ken groaned. He snatched up the first thing that came to hand – another of the glossy magazines that the blond left lying around – and whapped him with it. Chortling, Yohji's quick strike wrapped lean fingers around Ken's wrist, yanking him off balance. Without thinking, the startled former J-leaguer hooked his assailant's neck with one elbow, and locked together, they tumbled into a heap on the floor.

The lean man twisted like an eel, squirming right-side-up in half a breath. Ken was stronger, but strength did him no good if he couldn't get a grip on his quarry, and Yohji had the advantage of actually knowing more martial arts. His free hand came up inside Ken's choke-hold, easily breaking it, and providing him with an opportunity of his own to flip the straining athlete. And Yohji wasn't even breathing hard. It was just so fucking unfair.

Because, of course, once Yohji had him pinned to the bare wooden floor, he cheerfully assaulted his ribs. Ken had to bite back a squeal.

Brute force was only going to get him so far, and it quickly became apparent that so long as he kept ending up on the bottom with the jerk tying his arms into knots, Ken didn't have a prayer. Finally, exasperated beyond belief, the brunet pounded on the floor and surrendered. Yohji chortled gleefully, but kept a tight hold on the arm he had twisted up behind the younger Weiss' back. "So, you gonna tell Uncle Yohji all about it, or do I have to read about it in the paper?"

"Ah, fuck off!" Ken wheezed. He really hadn't pulled any of his punches, but the end result was the same: himself on the floor with the annoying asshole sitting on the small of his back, pinning him face-first.

Yohji blew in his ear, and leered. "Fingers of Evil, Kenken." The exaggerated drawl was more than Ken could stand; he sputtered, coughed, and began to laugh helplessly.

"A- assass- inated… b- by tickling. What a way to die!"

Yohji growled playfully and demonstrated what the 'Fingers of Evil' were capable of, running them lightly up Ken's side, then darting in to attack his armpits and the backs of his thighs. The out-raged howl and accompanying bucking nearly pitched the snickering blond off.

"All right, all right! I give!" The tickling ceased as if by magic. Panting, Ken relaxed into the floorboards, allowing the cool surface to ease the burning in his cheek. It felt nice against the overheated skin… until he realized that he was having a hard time breathing. "Hey, would you mind getting off of me?" he wheezed.

There was a thoughtful pause, and then the unseen voice drawled, "Yes."

Long minutes passed, and all that happened was that Yohji shifted a bit and got comfortable. "Yotan…" Ken growled threateningly. "Why is your bony butt still on my back?"

"Ken, sweet Ken… Think about what you said. You asked if I would mind, and I said 'yes.' That means I _do_ mind. I'm not about to let you make a run for it. Uh, uh. Got you. Gonna keep you. _We_ have some things to discuss." Ken could practically feel the smugness radiating off of the lanky blond, but damn it, he hadn't been kidding when he referred to Yohji's butt as 'bony.' Plus, for such a skinny man, the guy was surprisingly heavy. Taken together with the fact that he was more agile, had a longer reach, _and_ had mastered some martial art or other that emphasized throws and holds, and Ken was thoroughly stuck. His best chance against Yohji had come and gone before he had even sat down on the bed.

Like his encounter with Aya, it was all so fucking unfair. Annoyed, Ken growled and simply gave up. The sudden lack of fight confused the older blond, who reached down and lifted a hank of black and brown streaked bangs from his victim's sullen face. "Hey… What's the matter?"

"Fuck off, Kudoh."

The loose-limbed man scrambled up, grasped Ken by the scruff, and hauled the smaller man erect. He stared searchingly at Ken's face, remarking, "This is not the face of a man who has just spent the night in paradise. What gives?"

Flushing with embarrassment, the athlete stared miserably at the floor. When the moments ticked by and he still hadn't answered, Yohji sighed and shoved him down to sit on his bed, dropping himself at Ken's side. "Okay. No more stupid jokes. Tell me about it."

Reluctantly, the brunet opened his mouth, but as his handsome teammate's name left it, he stalled. "Aya…" Aya what? _Aya was too stressed for a backrub, so he made me jerk him off?_ That sounded really good. Ken's mouth snapped obstinately shut. Nothing was going the way he had hoped it would. Not that he'd had a really clear idea of what _that_ was, but still… Grudgingly, he mumbled, "Why do you care?"

"Hm. Good question." Yohji shrugged. "No idea. Guess I'm a soft touch. Might have something to do with living with you for, oh, going on three years? Might be I can't stand to see a guy all cut up. Whatever, I'm willing to listen."

It sounded as if he meant it, too. Sighing, Ken muttered, "I, uh, I told Aya I'd take care of him. You know, be there for him. He came along to my room with me, and I was giving him a back rub, to… um… try to get him to unwind enough that he would rest…" Fingers twisting awkwardly together, the younger man hesitated. "He had me bring him off."

"Huh. And I gather by your tone that this wasn't a, ah, 'mutual thing?' " Quiet and gentle, the question was non-judgmental, and served to open the flood-gates. Ken spun half way around, and burst out.

"I don't get him. He acted like it meant nothing. Like **_I_** meant nothing. How could he?"

"Hey, hey…" Hands raised in a 'slow down, take it easy' gesture, Yohji urged him to stop, and after a long moment, Ken subsided, chest still heaving. "Okay. Did you invite him to your room?"

"Well, yeah. I guess." the brunet admitted.

"And he let you touch him, voluntarily. And you wanted to touch him… voluntarily?"

"Yeah." Ken repeated. An annoyed frown settled on his mobile features, and he glared at the taller blond. "So?"

"Well, even though things didn't go so good this time, you're still several jumps up on where you were a couple of days ago. My advice is to keep trying. Show him that it's a mutual thing. Reciprocal. If you want him to open up, you open up and show him how it's done. Believe me, he wouldn't have let you jerk him off if he wasn't interested."

"I, uh…" The truth of what Yohji was saying sank in. A few days earlier, Ken had wanting nothing from a partner beyond that casual release. But his desires changed, had evolved. What was to say that Aya wasn't the same? He _had_ taken the unprecedented step of allowing his younger teammates within his tightly held perimeter, had encouraged both physical and emotional contact, and had _talked_ more than he normally did in weeks. Why would Ken expect everything at once? Suddenly happier, the brunet's mood flipped and he found a grin tugging his lips. "Yeah." He snickered. "I had my hands on him, didn't I?" Memory supplied an image of Aya, flushed and aroused, bent back over his lap with Ken's tanned fingers wrapped around the dusky shaft jutting from his undone jeans. Yohji was right; that had definitely not been the sign of someone who wasn't interested. A lean, long-fingered hand gripped his arm before he could jump up and head back to his own room to pursue the thought.

"Just save it until after the mission, okay? You're Omi's partner on this one, and I don't know that the kid is ready for a horny ball player." He paused, and chuckled. "At least, not those kinds of balls."

"Yohji!" Blushing, Ken snatched up the abandoned pillow and began whapping the chortling man until they both collapsed into helpless laughter.

**_breakabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzbreak_**

Of course, Ken thought sourly, he shouldn't have expected Yohji to quit while he was ahead. The lanky blond had followed him to the bathroom, and stood leaning against the doorframe while the shorter Hunter splashed cold water over his tired face. The ever-present pack of cigarettes materialized out of somewhere, and the former PI just had to shake one out and light up as he delivered the killing stroke: "So… I gather Aya's not a screamer, since I didn't hear a thing last night."

Ken choked, inhaled, and got water up his nose.

A long, skinny arm reached past the smaller man's shaking back, and snagged a tissue for him. Wheezing, agonized, Ken blew his nose and shot a furious glare up at the quietly snickering assassin. Yohji's forest green eyes widened, and he collapsed against the counter, howling.

Offended, Ken muttered, "I'm not telling you _shit_ ever again, so help me God."

Across the hall, Omi's door creaked open a hair, and a sleepy complaint issued followed by a thrown house slipper. The door slammed shut. Wiping at his streaming eyes, the senior blond reigned in his hilarity, instead whispering, "Just as well you guys are the quiet types; the poor kid stayed up way too late getting the mission profile squared away, thanks to our Kritiker honeys. You know Manx is the 'more is better' type, as opposed to Ms. Birman-san and her 'info, what info?' approach."

Now, _there_ was a situation that he'd been avoiding, Ken realized. He had deliberately not allowed himself to think about how their littlest teammate would take what had happened – or not happened, as the case might be – between the withdrawn swordsman and himself. What a mess that was going to be. He snagged a towel from the wall rack and wiped his face.

"Yohji?" Ken said quietly. "That's the thing… it wasn't just that he's not a screamer. Aya doesn't make a single sound. It's like he wasn't even there."

"Whoa…" Yohji exclaimed, forgetting to whisper, "_That's_ a challenge if ever I heard one. So, why do you think he's so quiet?"

"Because he's a repressed bastard?" Ken sighed. He was really beginning to hate these analytical conversations. Every time he got anywhere near either of the blond half of the team, it seemed like he was getting sucked into one.

"Hmm… But is he? Repressed, I mean. Seems like he's not exactly inhibited when it comes to sex."

"Fuck, I don't know! What do _you_ think it is, then?" He couldn't believe that he was standing in the bathroom of Villa Weiss in the wee hours of the morning, having a personal conversation with the team's resident playboy. And not just any personal conversation, but one that revolved around Ken's own sex life. Suddenly apprehensive, he strangled the towel in his hands rather than hang it back up to dry.

Yohji shot a glance across at the hacker's closed door, and nudged the bathroom's most of the way shut. He lowered his voice, saying, "Trust. I don't think Aya's the trusting sort. Yet. He holds a bit of himself back, even if he's enjoying himself, because he doesn't have the trust to let go. The question is, can you get him there? I mean, it's only been a few days since we got him back, and we've gotten more out of him this past week than we have in two years. It's bad that it took getting kidnapped to break him down, but good that he's finally starting to open up."

"Uncle Yohji's Advice to the Lovelorn? From the master of the one night stand?"

"Pffst." He airily waved away the snide comment. "That's different. Me, I'm in it for some fun and relaxation. Laugh all you want, but sure, why not? You guys will only have one 'first time' together. Why not make it memorable? I told you before: Anticipation. It's the greatest spice there is. It helps that Aya was in Crashers. Trust me, those people are _not_ innocent, or inexperienced. If you can get Dr. Jekyll to cut loose, Omi and I will have to move out for a week. At least."

Yohji ignored the inarticulate squall of protest from the brunet, simply leaning aside so that the reflexive punch missed his shoulder. "The thing is, we gotta patch him up enough that he can still function in Weiss, or it isn't going to happen. We have to move him past the 'no kill' thing."

That gave Ken pause. He lowered his cocked fist slowly. "Do _you_ believe killing is okay?"

"Me? No. Not really. Targeting the bad guys of the world makes us only a hair better than the people we hunt. But on the other hand, I don't think the world can survive without some kind of wolves to take out the sick and diseased in the herd. I think that's what we're for. We hunt the feral sheep, the ones who've turned into something else, because it has to be done. This mission of Omi's is make-it or break-it time."

"Omi." Ken said, finally recalled to his initial concern. "You do know Omi was… um… 'interested' in Aya?"

"Re-e-e-eally? And here I thought it was you he wanted." Yohji boosted himself up to sit on the counter beside the sink.

"I… don't think it's me. At least, not totally. Omi said that he and Aya talked it over, and the kid – young man now, I should say – decided he was going to wait. But all this stuff you're saying about first times, and how it should be special… I worry about him. How is he going to have a normal life with a bunch of assassins? Even if Kritiker did set us up intending we, ah, be more than just teammates, and everything, it's not fair to Ommitchi."

A warm hand patted his shoulder, and Ken looked up, meeting the blond's tilted, amused green gaze in the mirror. "Hey, I'm proud of you, kiddo. Proves you got a great heart, _and_ a brain under there. It's a good thing you're our little computer wiz's backup tonight. He'll be in good hands with you to look out for him." He hopped off the counter. "Come on. I'll fix you breakfast while we wait for the sleepy-heads to get up. Then we'll go over all the maps and crap, frontwards and backwards, until we're totally ready to roll out. Right?"

"Uh, right." Ken agreed. Bemused, he followed the swaying hips out and down the stairs. Yohji? Offering to cook? It was official; the world had gone totally insane.

**_breakabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzbreak_**

The sanity of the universe was still a toss-up, hours later, when the four of them assembled in the villa's kitchen for a final, pre-mission equipment check over lunch. Ken shivered at the brush of Yohji's fingers as the older man walked behind him, trailing his fingertips teasingly across the exposed skin on the backs of the athlete's thighs.

Damned jeans. He should have burnt them the first time. He was either going to end up with pneumonia walking around with his goods hanging out through the rips, or spontaneously combust due to terminal embarrassment. Either way, Ken figured he wouldn't make it through the night. The only consolation, if that's what it was, was that Omi didn't look any happier in his baggy black cargo shorts and slinky, metallic shirt. Now that the smaller Hunter had caught on to the significance of the sultry looks Yohji kept shooting his way, he was a constant, dull red. In a way, Ken supposed he ought to be grateful for the distraction; Aya hadn't spoken a word to him.

Oh, that wasn't to say that the redhead was silent. Far from it. He had given voice to his normal, brief 'Excuse me,' and 'Pass the rice,' back at breakfast. Had even said 'Thank you' when Omi set a full bowl of miso in front of him. He just hadn't addressed Ken, or what had occurred between them. And Ken couldn't decide if he was relieved, or pissed off over the silence.

Or worried.

When Aya had emerged from his own room, clean, showered, dressed from head to toe in his unrelieved black, he had been carrying that dog-eared book on the assassin, the one who had refused to kill, and devoted his life to atonement. And when Yohji had asked him where his katana was, the wire man had been on the receiving end of such a cold, forbidding stare that words had been unnecessary. It had made Ken realize that in the preceding days, ever since the first fight at the Kritiker mansion, Aya had not laid a finger on his beloved sword. Instead, Ken had been the one to carry it for him, and if that wasn't ironic, he didn't know what was.

Whatever. At least Aya couldn't get into too much trouble working with Yohji on tracing phone calls. Unfortunately, the plan also meant that the younger half of Weiss would be stuck in the city of hours until it was their turn to move. It was lunch time now, and allowing for the two hour drive down from the mountains, they would still have hours to kill until the night life - such as it was – woke up in Tanagawa.

"Hey… You okay with this?" Ken asked, leaning over to nudge his partner. Omi paused, mouth crammed full of toast and stared at him.

Swallowing, the smaller Hunter replied, "Yeah. Sure. Why not?" Ken shrugged.

"Dunno. Just seems kinda rough that we're going to have to find a place to lie low all day, that's all." A slice of toast provided his hands with something to do as he slowly picked it to bits. He glowered at the growing pile of fragments.

"Ken-kun. What's wrong? It's not like you to get a case of nerves before a mission."

"I just don't know!" Angry, he bit out the words and shoved away his plate. "I just have a bad feeling about this. That's all. A really bad feeling."

The rice cooker _dinged_ and Omi jumped up to tend to it. Fragrant steam rose from the big bowl that he parked in the middle of the wooden table, and Yohji, opposite, made an approving noise at the back of his throat and held his bowl out hopefully. Smiling, the younger blond spooned up a scoop for him. He neatly arranged bowls of rice and miso at his place at the table and slid into his chair. "I don't think it's going to be so bad, Ken-kun." Omi surveyed the group, and as his enthusiasm warmed, he spoke more rapidly. "A little while ago, I got an email from Manx-san to one of my free accounts. She's arranged a panel van for us, with some basic surveillance equipment, a spare laptop, and also a small telecommunications dish. And before you ask, yes, I did remember to ask her to keep this between just her and us. No one else in Kritiker will know."

"What about the wire tap software?" Yohji's right hand hovered over the plate of toast, finally descending on a slice just as the other snagged the dish of butter from under Ken's reaching fingers. The playboy flashed him a grin, then turned his once-again serious gaze to the shrugging teenager.

"I've got my latest version burned onto a cd-rom, so it's ready. Aya-kun has run through it, and shouldn't have any problems with it. Mostly, the computer does the work anyhow. All he needs to do is to monitor it." Omi hesitated, his pleasure over assembling their strategy dimming. "Maybe Ken-kun is right to have a bad feeling. Manx-san parked the van at a ramp about a block from the police headquarters. It was the closest place she felt confident that no one would notice its presence, even if it was left there for hours. But that also means that if you are attacked again, Yohji-kun, Aya-kun will be too far away to be of help. I don't think I like that too much. Maybe… maybe we should re-think this part of the mission."

"Nah. I'll be fine. I'm just a successful PI, visiting an old buddy. At a _police_ station, kiddo. In broad daylight. What could go wrong?" teased the older blond. He made a show of adjusting the cuffs of the expensive navy blue sport jacket that he wore, and brushing off nearly invisible crumbs. But in spite of the light delivery, Omi shot him a worried glance.

"Don't make fun of it, Yohji-kun." he admonished. "Tempting fate is a bad idea, and you know as well as I do that the opposition is well-armed, and has superior numbers. We've been very lucky so far."

Grinning, the tall assassin unfolded from his chair. "Didn't know you cared so much, sweetie. I'm starting to envy Kenken here." Abandoning his dirty dishes, he leaned across the table and ruffled both the younger Hunters' hair, blew them a kiss, and ambled out of the kitchen before either could organize a suitable retort.

Seething, Ken snarled at the retreating back, "He's got a hell of a lot of nerve." A tight grip on his wrist drew his attention back, to find Omi's thin fingers clutching him. Startled, he met the boy's hurt gaze.

"I wish he would stop doing that. He's going to get killed if he keeps on being so careless."

Ken didn't really know to say to that, but unexpectedly Aya spoke up from his place at the end of the table. "Omi. Yohji isn't speaking to you when he acts this way. It's his own bitterness at not being able to affect things that happened in the past that's coming out." Low, and serious, Aya's rich baritone sent a shiver up the younger man's spine, and drove the flash of fury he felt straight out of his brain. Omi's hand fell away as the teen swiveled around in his seat to level a bewildered stare at the redhead. Impatience over their lack of comprehension drew Aya's elegant brows down into a scowl. "It's easier to taunt the gods than it is to admit that he's failed."

"Yohji-kun… failed?" Omi asked faintly.

"Of course he did. Everyone he's ever cared for has died due to his actions. Why should his own fate be any better?" Indifferent, Aya tossed the comment over his shoulder as he, too, left the table and silently walked out.

_**To Be Continued...**_

_**Author's Note:** My apologies for the 'odd' scene has decided that the horizontal line is not working due to a script error. At least I'm assuming that the problem is on their end since I've been fooling with this for over a day now... And, once again, grateful thanks to Lita and Kelly for wading through and beta-ing this beast. You know I adore you both! _

_On a final note, Kelly and I are writing a Yami no Matsuei / Weiss Kreuz crossover, titled "Monozuki." Here on , it's being posted under her account; on , under mine. While it doesn't fall in the same time line as "Reflections," I do hope that you'll go search it out and give it a try._


	14. Chapter 14: Firsts

**Reflections: Firsts **

_Chapter 14_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

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Author's Note(s): _Yes, yes… they're long this time… Deal._**

_First, I have a special one: "Reflections" has been gifted with a sidefic, titled "Darkness." I cannot describe how tickled I am, and that the character is true to what I envisioned in MY head is icing on the cake. Please, go read it, and give some warm encouragement (so that maybe she'll write us another one!) "Darkness" is posted here on under the story ID 2185187 (pen-name natt syuusuke). I have included it in the clutter of my favorites list, as well. Thank you, Lyl! _

_And, second, as a side bonus (and because some of the clues Lyl had to work with for "Darkness" were very well hidden) I'm posting a portion of the timeline for "Reflections." Yeah, there really is such a thing. Although I seem to have encountered a time warp around chapter 12 because somehow the dates don't match the outline. wince _

**Solo Mission **

_Feb 12th, leave on vacation  
__Feb 14th, art viewing  
__Feb 15th,auction  
__Feb 16th, Aya checks out of his hotel. Moves to Fujita's apartment.  
__Benson leaves for Houston.  
__Feb 19th, Birman's last contact with Aya._

**Aya's Abduction**

_Feb 19th, early evening. Aya is 'mugged' in the alley, taken prisoner. Locked in basement.  
__Feb 23rd, Aya is fully conscious again. Cleans and cares for himself.  
__Feb. 24th, Aya's first (spontaneous) escape attempt. His captors cut his hair and bandage him up. They leave his overnight bag with him (change of clothing and book). Implication is that they have searched the Fujita apartment.  
__March 3rd, Aya makes an attempt to escape and is seriously injured. His bag with book and clothing is taken away. He remains unconscious for longer and longer stretches of time until the police raid._

**Aya's Rescue**

_March 10th,(2:00am) raid on the Hot Body by police.  
__Aya is recovered by police.  
__March 11th, (early)Ken and Omi see Aya's picture on the news.  
(__late) Weiss steals Aya from the hospital. He's been in police hands for 30 hours.  
__March 12th, (2:00am) view tape of Aya at art viewing.  
__(Dawn) team sacks out in den with Aya._

_And, last but far from least, thank you to those who have kept encouraging me. The usual guilty parties, and also those of you who have written reviews. I appreciate each and every one of you. (Hey! GreenLady – you write Gundam stories, don't you? I remember something about ties… and shopping… Thank you for the compliment on my use of words. grin )_

_And finally, **Chapter 14: Firsts**…_

_Enjoy,_

_Lisa_

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"I'm worried about Aya-kun."

Coming out of the blue, the statement took Ken by surprise and he stumbled over a crack in the uneven sidewalk. He slid a sideways glance at his companion, taking in the firm set to the normally smiling mouth, and the way it made the childish jaw jut in a decidedly adult way; Omi wasn't joking. But at the same time, it wasn't as if they hadn't talked their way around the topic before. "Oooo-kay…" he said cautiously. "Not like this is news, or anything, considering everything that's been going on, but why bring it up _now_?"

"What he said about Yohji-kun, about how everything he cares about, dies? I think he was talking about himself. The problem is that he's withdrawing again, Ken-kun. Every time I look at him, he's farther away. Pretty soon, he's going to stop being there at all." The answer was barely audible as the petit blond addressed the words to the concrete beneath their feet. It was the soft sniffle that punctuated the end, though, that made Ken wrap an arm around the thin shoulders and pull Omi into a rough hug as they continued to walk down the shabby street. Tanagawa in the waning daylight was even less impressive than it had been at night, but at least no one was likely to care about two boys walking so close together; the few pedestrians were just as absorbed in their own business as they were in theirs.

The illusion of privacy was welcome. Earlier, when they had walked in from the smaller train station on the outskirts of the industrial part of the town, the stares and catcalls had fanned Omi's embarrassed blush, and kept his eyes firmly focused on the ground, while Ken's temper had gone into a slow burn. People – or at least the blue collar, rough factory workers – had leapt to the obvious conclusions as to their shared profession, and it made the hot-headed athlete want to go straighten out a few misconceptions. Preferably with his fists. An oddly subdued Omi had seized his elbow and hustled him safely out of view, only releasing Ken when there was no chance he would go back. Disgruntled, Ken had let him have his way, and stomped along with his hands crammed so deep in his pockets that the pants rode dangerously low on his hips. Then it was _Omi_ who kept staring appreciatively, and the frustrated brunet couldn't decide if that was better, or worse.

Christ, he had been ogled by his best friend, when said best friend was dressed up like an underage whore. There had to be something seriously wrong with _that_.

The only good part to the whole mess was that while Omi might look, he didn't touch the way Yohji did. And that thought of course brought up a whole host of its own annoying issues… Belatedly, Ken realized that Omi's serious, upturned face was still waiting for a reply. He grunted. "Ri-i-i-i-ght. If you ask me, they're both of them heading for trouble. But it does make sense that Aya would understand what Yohji's doing, because it's how he feels, too. What I _don't_ know is how do we stop Aya from hiding. There has to be some way to make him pay attention." Ken tried to adjust his longer stride without knocking the smaller youth off his feet. The stumbling rhythm bumped their hips together, and the teenager stifled a giggle. Leaning into his companion, Omi slid an arm around behind and hooked his fingers into the empty belt loops of Ken's sagging jeans. The thin fingers were pleasantly warm where they brushed against the small of Ken's back.

"I kind of don't think it would work, but we could try tying both of them to chairs, and _make_ them listen to us." the hacker suggested, his giggles becoming out-right laughter as the ridiculousness of it appealed to his innate, positive mind-set. He tugged lightly at the older youth's pants, and Ken fought off a shiver as the cooling air of approaching night got in through the rips to places that really ought to be better protected. Silently, he damned the jeans again, and Yohji, and wished that he had been able to wear briefs under there, without having them show. Distracted, Ken was only half listening as his partner continued to prattle cheerfully on. "Or we could both pounce them in bed? That might not be such a good idea; Yohji-kun might like it a little _too_ much, and who knows with Aya-kun-- "

Guilt flared in Ken's memory, together with a picture of Aya, flushed and panting. "Uh, Omi? I've been meaning to tell-- " Ken began awkwardly, but then the blond waved the words away before he could untangle them.

"Pfft. Yeah, I know. I mean, I don't _know_ know, but I figured you and him would get around to it with me out of the picture. It's okay. I expected it when Aya turned me down." Suddenly old blue eyes flickered up, peering at Ken through a fringe of fine gold. "But it doesn't stop me from worrying about him. Or about you."

The athlete's steps faltered and he nearly tripped the two of them up again. The youngest Weiss' name came out in a groan, "Omi-- "

"No. Listen, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a teeny bit jealous-- " Interrupted by Ken's rude snort, Omi smacked him lightly on the gut and laughed. "Oh, all right. A _lot_ jealous. But that's beside the point."

"You mean, there's a point to this beside you not getting any?" Grinning, Ken couldn't resist. He was so relieved that Omi wasn't mad that his own mood immediately flipped back the other way to match his friend's.

"Ke-en!" The aggravated teen blushed scarlet and stomped lightly on his older companion's instep, making Ken hop clumsily on one leg for a couple of steps. He had to clutch at the waistband of the old jeans, too, just to keep them up, anchored as they were in his companion's fist. Omi's blue eyes went wide, then shuttered behind the concealing veil of his long lashes.

"Ow! You brat! You kick damned hard for such a little pain in the a—Mmph!" Eyes wide, Ken stumbled backwards to find himself pinned to the corner of the storefront they were passing by a slender, hard body that surprised him with its strength. The fingers that had been still tangled in the waistband of the disreputable, faded jeans fluttered onto the rise of Ken's hip, and the gesture translated into an embrace when the blond's other hand joined his first.

"Ken…" The soft voice was throaty, and the distracted athlete nearly missed the fact that Omi had dropped the 'kun' after his name, shifting to a more intimate form of address. Suddenly nervous, the smaller Weiss cleared his throat. "You, ah, shouldn't let Yohji-kun tease you. You look very nice."

_Nice…?_ That certainly wasn't the word anyone else had used to describe his artfully shredded pants. Yohji's comments had been verging on the pornographic. Hell, what 'verging?' When combined with the expression on that handsome, lazy face, and the teasing, feather-light stroking of the wire man's casual fingers, Ken ended up feeling like a nun on the road to purgatory: it felt oh, so good, and was oh, so, so wrong. He looked down at the sweet, vulnerable features, noting absently that 'down' wasn't quite as far as it used to be… Omi had grown a couple of inches in the past year. Somewhere along the way, he had shifted from pretty little boy, to swan-graceful, with the sculpted lines of his delicate throat and the exposed wings of his collar bones. Ken swallowed hard against the sudden dryness of his throat.

"Uh, t-thanks. Y-you do, too." he stammered. Pressed snuggly against his chest, each thudding beat of the hacker's heart was easily discerned, and Ken's sped up to match that rhythm. The sleek, gun-metal gray fabric hugged every ripple and curve of the musculature beneath his shaking finger tips, and Ken was seized by the urge to strip away the clinging fabric, to explore with more senses than just that fleeting touch.

Omi let go of the tattered jeans where they drooped on Ken's hips. One small hand wove into the athlete's dark-streaked hair, while the other curled along the line of his jaw, holding Ken steady while the teen rocked up onto his toes, and indigo-blue eyes wide, seemed determined to kiss the daylights out of the astounded ball-player as their lips met.

"Don't tease unless you intend to follow through." a husky voice commanded. Sinking down from tip-toes to the flats of his feet, Omi nudged the taller brunet around the corner and into the privacy of a narrow, shadowed alley.

"O- Omi!" Ken protested faintly, "What happened to worrying about Yohji? Aya? Remember them? Both tall, good-looking? One's blond? The other has red hair? You know, pissy temper-- "

"Ken, you're babbling. I haven't forgotten them." This time the kiss was slower, but just as breathless. "_You're_ distracting me, you know? Yohji-kun was right about those jeans – they are damned sexy." The soft alto sank into a low purr that was completely at odds with its origin's apparent age. The delicate frame pressed up against Ken again, stretching to match him, knee to knee, hip to hip… and groin to groin. A softly insistent kiss that turned ardent again accelerated the process of turning the brunet's brains to mush.

"Oh, God… Somebody is going to see us. We've gotta stop." Helpless, Ken's hands hovered over his friend's back. The slither-hiss of the dark, metallic shirt Omi wore against his own, faded tee-shirt was arguably the most sensual sound he had ever heard… or it was until the childishly soft voice moaned "Ken, shut up," against the side of his throat, a prelude to the teasing slide of a tongue down the line from ear to collar. Whimpering, Ken repeated, "They're gonna see us."

The ghost of Omi's laugh tickled the hollow at the base of his throat, exposed where the ridiculously outsized shirt dipped low. The smaller Hunter whispered, "Ken-kun, in this neighborhood, people who are having sex are probably _less_ likely to attract attention than those who aren't."

A thread of light, reflected from the clouded glass of the shop windows across the street, was still enough to light Omi's fair hair from behind like a halo. Looking down into the upturned, shadowed face, Ken felt a lump collect in his throat, and had to swallow hard to get past it. Corny though it sounded, at some point when he hadn't been watching, it had stopped being a question of _if_ he was falling for his best friend, and just become one of _when_. Without even thinking about it, his hands curved gently, palm and strong fingers fitting themselves to the delicate jaw, wonderingly stroking the smooth skin. _How did this happen?_ he asked himself, dazed. He couldn't remember waking up at some point, and thinking, _Today, I'm going to fall in love…_

And to do it not once, but _twice_, now that was a miracle.

Omi _and_ Aya? He was going insane. His feelings for the sweet boy – young man, Ken reminded himself – were nothing like what being around Aya did to him. But it was. In some weird, understated, time-warped kind of way, it was exactly the same.

_Christ on a crutch!_ Ken shook his head in disgust. _The next thing I know, I'll be falling for that asshole Yohji…_ And hard on the heels of that disturbing thought came the realization that he _had_ begun to care about the playboy, had begun to feel an exasperated affection for him, just as he did for the rest of his team.

Three other young men, who were all incredibly different. Yet, also, exactly the same.

Ken let his head fall back against the grimy brick with a _thunk_, and groaned out loud. Damn whichever one of his teammates it was who had put the idea of Kritiker wanting to built a closer bond between them into his head. In the space of the week that they had been on the run, Ken had fallen, and fallen hard for more than one of the men he had to work with. He toyed briefly with the constricted sensation in his chest, and finally acknowledged that he suspected that the feelings had been there for a long time before his admittedly slow brain had caught on to them. It wasn't just Omi, at this moment, or Aya when the cold man was hurting enough to allow his touch, but his entire team – the unit – that was front and center in his mind. He cared about all of them.

Although, if Kritiker had entertained visions of a group orgy, he was sorry to have to disappoint, because _that_ image was just too unnerving to give solid form to.

Oh, God… he was actually thinking about Yohji, and sex, at the same time, and when he wasn't blind drunk. The groan became a soft, frustrated whine of distress.

"Ken-kun? What's the matter?" Soothing fingers rubbed the twitching muscles of his stomach, the palm innocently staying far away from the crotch of his jeans. Guiltily, the ex-soccer player twitched as it sank in that he'd been staring out into space, making sounds like a dog that had just limped home after being on the loosing side of a spat with a cat.

Ken blinked at the anxious face peering up at him. "Jesus, Omi… " he whispered, "How can you stand to do this? How can you bear to take a chance on us… on _me_? Don't you realize how screwed up I am?"

"You're not, Ken. At least, not any more than I am. I mean, I don't even know, really, who I am. Even with being given a family and a name, I'm just as lost as ever. All I know is, I'm tired of being alone." An unexpectedly bitter laugh, as out of place as snow in the Sahara, gusted from between his lips.

"But… You wanted to wait."

"I did." Omi shrugged, the movement sending a darkly silver gleam rippling over the fabric of his shirt. "But I'm not stupid, Ken. What we're doing is dangerous. Seeing Yohji and Aya acting like that just makes me understand even more that I may not have the time _to_ wait. We could get killed. We could _all_ get killed by this."

Killed. Dead. No more chances, no more opportunities to follow up on what would have to remain a regret forever, for whichever of them survived. Oh, he definitely understood. Ken got it on a visceral level, his stomach clenching with the beginnings of a familiar panic. It wasn't that they didn't live with risks every day, because they did. Any mission could go sour, and then one of them wouldn't be coming home any more. But this, this bizarre game of cat-and-mouse, this hunt where Weiss was the prey, not the predators, was different. More deadly. More dangerous. They had been so lucky, each time they clashed with their unknown opponents, and who could say how long it would be until that luck ran out?

Something flashed ominously in the smaller teen's shadowed eyes. He closed the distance between them again, leaning his lesser weight into the solid brunet. Determination roughened the childishly sweet voice.

"Let me, Ken-kun. Let me touch you." Omi's fluttering fingers trailed up between them, tracing the edges of the tears in the denim. A small thumb rubbed with blatant determination over the contours of Ken's erection, daring him to deny its existence.

Helpless, the older youth's breath escaped in a gasp.

"Remember a few months back, the assignment where Youji-kun wouldn't stop teasing me because I kept blushing?" At the wry grimace in the husky voice, Ken found himself grinning. He definitely remembered the episode; it had ended with an exasperated boy shouting 'Next time _you_ crawl in the ventilation shafts!' and Yohji laughing until the tears came. Ken had never completely gotten the _why_ of it, but he did remember, and it had been damned funny at the time.

"This was why – I was stuck in an air conditioning duct in the building for over an hour, because I was afraid to move, because I might make too much noise, or the movement might be seen. The grate I was by, this guy was looking straight at it the whole time…" Omi's voice faltered, threatening to crack in embarrassment, but after a moment, he continued. "Anyway, he was lying on the desk in the office, with his trousers off, but still wearing his suit coat, and this other man was licking him, and sucking on him… The second guy's head was in the way part of the time, so I couldn't always see what he was doing, but the one on the desk, he had this _naked_, stripped look to his face. It was so beautiful. I want to see your face like that, Ken-kun."

The thumb was joined by four fingers, and a toughened palm, gripping with exquisite strength through the worn fabric. Ken moaned and had to lock his knees to keep from sliding down the grubby wall.

How in God's name had he gotten from swearing off sex totally, to this? The part of his brain that was busy squealing _NO! Bad idea!_ was rapidly getting drowned out by the deprived part that was exulting _Yes! We're gonna get some!_ Or maybe that was the 'depraved' part, Ken thought fleetingly, because screwing Omi in a dirty alley was definitely _not_ one of his purer daydreams. But then the agile fingers found one of the more strategically placed rips in the tattered jeans, and rational thinking came dangerously close to being a thing of the past. Desperate, the older youth tried imagining running laps as a punishment, and the first thing that came to mind was an image of Omi with the near-transparent shirt limning every curve of his slender body as it became soaked with sweat. "Eep." Ken whimpered, and gave in. Wrapping his arms around the trim torso, he went to work returning Omi's kiss with interest.

Tension of a different sort than embarrassment was thrumming through the too-small body as Omi hugged him hard in return. They had been this far down the road before, and Ken was used to – assuming it was possible to get _used_ to being drugged half out of his mind – the eager touch of tongue, lips and teeth against his mouth, and the side of his throat. His own body remembered how wonderfully sweet his best friend tasted and felt, and the instinctive tightening of every muscle couldn't be faked. At least, that was Ken's excuse when he found himself cursing and panting as Omi squirmed loose of his bear hug, and began to slowly slide down, rubbing with innocent lasciviousness all the way.

The jeans were so loose that he didn't really feel it when the button in the waist gave way, but the warm puff of Omi's breath nearly put the back of Ken's head through the bricks.

His skull impacted the unyielding surface again when the zipper inched down, and teasing wetness cautiously licked at him.

Omi was really going to go through with it? The idea alone was enough to shut down most of the impulsive athlete's higher reasoning functions. Of the four members of Weiss, he was always the one who acted first, and thought about it much, much later. He was the one with the short fuse, quick to anger… and he had also been the one who had the fiercest sympathy for the victims they encountered, making their cause his, making the battle against the Dark Beasts personal. On some level, Ken was vaguely aware that the road he was on would eventually destroy him; already, he was beginning to take the harsh, furious thrill of being a Hunter, of feeling his claws ripping life, as the center of his metaphysical universe. Or he had been, until the moment they had seen Aya's picture on the news broadcast. From the instant of that first shock, the world had shifted subtly on its axis, and begun leading him to this, to Omi acting out a weird echo of his own encounter with Aya, to the overwhelming surge of emotion.

_My team. Mine._

Gasping, Ken jerked helplessly against the wall. Hard time – pun intended – though he was having imagining the words spilling out in that slightly hoarse, young voice, the soft murmur of Omi's voice was going to make him crazy. A thought zinged through his mind, and he snatched at it before it was lost: Omi had picked the site of his seduction with typical, methodical care. The Weiss tactician _knew_ that the publicness of their location would serve two purposes. The guilty rush of doing something forbidden would push Ken to act, even as it would also keep him from allowing things to progress past a certain point, thereby providing the inexperienced blond with a kind of safe word. The frightened trembling of Omi's fingers where they gripped the upper curve of Ken's hip-bones just served to confirm the suspicion.

He was scaring Omi, and Omi intended to go through with sucking him off, anyway.

Somehow, it was so typically Omi, to be frightened, but to continue on. Yohji's words curled through Ken's brain, terribly muddled by the lust that gripped him, but none-the-less too important to ignore. _You only get one first time._ And this would be both Omi's first encounter with sex, and Ken's first time doing it with the innocent young Hunter. "H-hey… N-not like this. Okay?" Ken whimpered. "S- stop. Not… here!" The words were getting all tangled up, and he had to fight for coherency. "I don't want our first time to be in a hole like Tanagawa, in some gross alley."

The wet, velvet heat left him, and Ken had to fight to keep from thrusting, from trying to follow what had felt better than anything that he could imagine. He bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from begging, from saying that he'd changed his mind and that Omi could do anything he wanted, just so long as it didn't stop.

"W-why not, Ken?" Sobbing, the words caught in the petit blond's throat, coming out so thickly that the older youth could barely understand them. "I thought you would like it… That you would like me."

"Oh, God… Omi!" Grabbing the quivering shoulders, Ken dragged the boy up and into a crushing embrace, wrapping his arms completely around the too-small body. He buried his nose and mouth into the shining soft hair, and said fiercely, "I want you so much I think I'm going to explode. But I don't just want a quick blow job in an alley, got that? I want _you. _And, when the time comes, I want you to be just as hungry for me. Got that?"

The delicate features went from flushed with a mix of frustrated lust and embarrassment, to wide-eyed with something approaching terror. "You want me??" He swallowed hard. "Oh, oh no. Oh, Ken… It'll hurt, won't it? I-- " An apprehensive shiver ran the length of his body, instantly telegraphed to Ken by virtue of their close contact.

_What the fuck-- ?_

_Well, that was sure a serendipitous choice of words…_ the brunet thought queasily. Replaying precisely what he had said out loud, and factoring in the tone of his voice, it was easy to see why Omi was turning into a nervous wreck. Because, being Omi, and being as organized and driven as he always was, it was obvious that the hacker had done some research. And his research on gay sex probably was pretty explicit on the fact that the littler one usually bottomed, and that it was – to put it mildly - painful the first time. Very painful. Disgusted with himself, Ken let his sweat-clammy temple rest on top of his best friend's head, and sighed. The realization that Omi was attempting to be determined, no matter what, together with the cooling effect of the chilly breeze on exposed body parts, was doing a dandy job of wilting any lingering interest he might still have had concerning continuing. "I want you." he agreed soberly. "But we're going to do this at your speed, not mine. And that means that it's going to be a good long time before I ever fuck you into a mattress."

Omi twitched at the blunt wording, but he made no move to escape from Ken's grasp. Heartened by the fact, the brunet found himself grinning into the soft, silken hair. "Actually," he drawled, breathing carefully into the nearer of the quivering teenager's ears, "I think you should be the one to try it out on me first… Once you see how good it is, I'll bet you get over being scared. Just think… you can do anything you want, and get some ideas as to what you think would feel good when I do it back. To you."

Having Omi's face pressed against the juncture of Ken's neck and shoulder was doing a good job of muffling what sounded like swearing. Then Omi lifted his head a fraction, swallowing thickly, and mumbled, "How long till we can go home?"

Snorting, Ken lost the battle and let out choked laughter. "Soon." he promised. "Let me pull myself together, and we can go start parading you around, and see how long it takes for the shark to take the bait."

Omi swatted the athlete's hand away, and reached down between their bodies. His strong, slender fingers rubbed regretfully over Ken's groin. "Sadistic jerk." he muttered, amending it to "Sadistic jerk who won't let me jerk off, either." when Ken began to snicker. The trembling fingers briefly cupped Ken's balls before slipping deeper, moving like a serpent into the cleft between his shaking legs. Those fingers moved with the same betraying precision that they did everything with, and Ken gasped weakly, sagging against the blond's shoulder.

"Mission." he wheezed. "Mission first, right? _Then_ we go home." Against his chest, Omi nodded just as weakly, stroking his companion's erection as it was gently tucked back inside the sinfully torn up jeans.

"Promise?" he asked in a whisper. Ken nodded fervently.

"Fuck, _yes_. I'll even pinky-swear."

* * *

It was getting more and more cold as night settled fully onto the city streets, and Ken was seriously regretting not digging out his ski jacket back at the lodge, never mind that it wouldn't have fit his cover. And, if he was cold, Omi had to be ready to die in his baggy black cargo shorts and see-through shirt. There was a thin wind-breaker in Ken's backpack, but he wasn't about to put it on when his partner had nothing, and Omi had already glared and refused when Ken had offered it to him. But at least the biting wind was something to believe in, unlike the grimy, desperate gaiety around them.

Headlights and neon strobed, painting the dingy two and three story building in garish color, flashing reflections that silhouetted the other people on the street. Business men. Factory workers. Drug dealers. Whores. All in a confused mingling of genders and ages, making it hard to tell who was a customer, and who was a supplier. All with the same furtive, hopeful/beat-down air about them: _Maybe tonight is the night… Maybe tonight I'll get lucky._

The two disguised Weiss had been warned away more than once from choice corners, from places where the lighting provided a spotlight to focus attention on someone with more importance than they had, and Ken was beginning to wonder if they were making a mistake. They had been meandering up and down the main drag of the red light district for close to two hours, and hadn't seen any sign of their quarry. Omi leaned against his side, shivering a little, and said quietly, "Patience, Ken-kun. We've had stake-outs before where it took days to get a nibble."

Reluctantly, Ken nodded in agreement. Oh, he didn't like it, and not just because he had extended his little finger in a binding oath to his closest friend, either. It had more to do with the fact that the longer they stayed, the greater the chance that some bastard playing hooky from his respectable day-life was going to try to pick one of them up, and he didn't really want to find out if his dedication to the mission extended to the same lengths as Aya's. And, even less, did he want to know what Omi was capable of. It was well into the busiest part of the night, and a lot of the other street-walkers had already gotten into cars, or retreated to places with flashing neon signs advertising rooms by the hour. At this rate, they were going to get noticed just for being the only ones left.

With a guilty jerk, the brunet realized that he had let himself get distracted from watching the people around them; anyone of whom could be an agent of the enemy. Take the woman walking in front of them, who wore a purple satin mini-skirt that clung to the contours of her rear, and a matching short-short jacket trimmed in fluffy white fake fur. Something about her swaying walk, impossibly graceful despite the four-inch spike heels, teased at Ken and he scowled. Then, caught by a gust of chilly wind, her hood fell back, exposing bleached blond hair and he knew why she had seemed so familiar.

It was Honey. The whore who had given them the bogus information about where Aya had been held prisoner, and who had damned near caused Omi and Yohji to get killed in the garage ambush. Before he could even think, he was running after her.

Instinct made the woman spin around, a thin-bladed stiletto appearing magically in her hand just as Ken slammed her into the privacy of a recessed doorway, seizing her wrist and giving it a sharp pinch that send the knife spinning into the gutter. Omi moved smoothly past him, scooping the knife up and taking a flanking position leaning against the grimy wall out in the open. His deceptively casual gaze flickered over the few remaining pedestrians, and the passing cars, watching for anyone who might interfere even as his ears were tuned to catch every nuance of the conversation inches away in the alcove.

"Stupid bitch!" the athlete snarled. It didn't matter that he would have been shorter than the hooker even if she had been in stocking feet – in his rage he would have taken on anyone. Viciously, he twisted her imprisoned wrist until the bones grated together and she gasped at the pain.

"If you want your money back, I don't have it!" she cried, flinching futilely back against the locked steel door.

"It's not the God damned money, you bitch! You made me think he was at the Hot Body and he never was! Why?"

The woman looked shiftily to the side, finally muttering, "They told me to say that, if anyone came around asking questions."

Furious, Ken grabbed a fistful of her jacket, drawing the woman toward him and then slamming her back against the solid panel. Another pained gasp burst from Honey, and she sagged a little in his hold. "Who? And why would you go along with it for?"

"Those guys… the foreigners. They said they had contacts in the police department, and that they would help out Mishakawa and Iida… Those two idiots may not look like much, but they're family. I figured, 'what the hey?' It couldn't hurt…" she drew in a trembling sob, adding as Ken's hold on her wrist tightened impossibly, "Fuck… it _does_ hurt, you little shit."

"And it's gonna hurt worse if you're lying." Ken growled. Adrenaline was making his thoughts race, and he wished desperately that he could ask Omi for help with the impromptu interrogation, but his partner was watching his back. A stray idea came winging across his brain, and he demanded, "Was selling us the videos their idea, too?"

"No. That was mine. With my cousins out of business, cash's been getting tight to come by. It seemed like a good idea at the time…" A whimpering laugh accompanied the boneless sag as the last of her resistance bled away. Dimly, Ken recognized the passive helplessness of a victim, and felt a surge of disgust at himself. In the past, when he had seen women like this, they had been the ones Weiss was intent on rescuing, on freeing from the Dark Beasts, not someone that _he_ had been the one threatening. Revolted, Ken licked at suddenly dry lips and eased the pressure a degree, both that on the woman's wrist, and that of his imprisoning weight.

"If you're lying, so help me God, I'm gonna hunt you down and kill you." he whispered. A flicker of fear in dark eyes surrounded by smudged mascara told him that every word had been received – and believed. In that instant, he and Omi stopped being just a couple of punk kids, and moved sideways into a more dangerous category in the self-sufficient whore's mind. Ken could almost feel her instinctive recalculation of his place in the universe.

Why was he surprised that Honey had sold him out? It wasn't as if the woman owed him any loyalty. Ken took a deep breath and held firmly to his fraying temper. Screaming at the hooker would get him no where. Honey was just another victim of circumstances, nothing more. Quietly, he asked, "So exactly what was the deal with these guys?"

"If anyone came asking about the man found in Mishakawa's basement, I was to tell them the story I gave you, and to call them immediately."

"Then what?"

"They asked me to describe you."

Ken's blood ran cold. "And… did you?"

"Yeah." The woman proceeded to give an unnervingly accurate description of the former soccer player, right down to the edge of the burn scar visible on the underside of his forearm. Releasing the front of her jacket, Ken's hand closed protectively over the mark.

"And… my friend. The guy who brought the money? Did you tell them about him"

She shrugged. "Nah. They weren't paying enough for that. Besides, they said they wanted to know about the person who came looking, and kept asking if I gave exactly the story they said to."

Yohji hadn't been compromised. Or, at least not at that moment. Relief washed over Ken, but then annoyance shorted it out. The strangers had primed him with a made-up story, available presumably only at a single source. That story had then surfaced at the police station, but out of the mouth of a boy who looked _nothing_ like the one she had told it to. From Omi. For a panicked moment, Ken felt like pulling out the emergency cell phone concealed inside its hidden pocket at the bottom of his backpack, and calling Yohji and Aya to warn them. He squashed the urge, instead demanding, "What else? What else did you tell them?"

"Nothing." she protested. "They asked a bunch more questions about you, like had I ever seen you around before, and if I could get a hold of you again."

Crap, crap, crap. Yohji had written his number on the last yen bill that he had shoved into her halter top. But, wait, that was a Kritiker number… carefully kept untraceable. Omi switched them out on a regular basis, and even if he didn't, the number only led to an anonymous voice mail box that could be picked up from any phone, so long as one had the pass code. It was as close to fool-proof as Kritiker could make it. And, better yet, as close as _Omi_ could arrange. He willed his shaking muscles to relax. Still more quietly, he asked, "Are you going to call them now, and tell them that I came back?"

"Hah. As if. They haven't done shit for my cousins. Why should I help them out any more?" The bitter tone of betrayal was surprising, given what Honey, and Mishakawa, and Iida did for a living, but real none the less. Somehow, the hooker had actually held onto a forlorn hope that the foreigners using her family would come through and save them.

Maybe he could salvage something out of the disaster. "The phone number they had you call. Give it to me." When she rattled it off without hesitation, Ken glanced over at Omi, and took a deep breath. "Okay… here's what I want you to do, Honey. You're going to call them. You're going to tell them that I'm back, and that you saw me tailing a kid. Him." Ignoring the baffled look on the woman's face, and the apprehensive pain that seized his gut at the dawning comprehension on Omi's, Ken nodded toward his friend, and continued. "Tell them that you kind of recognize the kid – he had a regular customer and kept mostly off the streets, but something's happened and now he's walking 'em like anybody else. And then you're going to give me that cell phone, and you're going to take a really long vacation. I don't give a shit where, just a long ways from Tanagawa, and any of your fucking relatives. Am I clear?"

The whore's intent gaze shuttled rapidly between the two younger males, and Ken was painfully aware that his tattered, baggy clothes made him look barely older than Omi. "You two…" she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, "You two are trying to set a trap for them, aren't you?"

Omi seized the initiative, and before Ken could open his mouth to deny it, said, "Yes. Absolutely. They hurt a friend of ours. A part of _our_ family. And you understand how that feels, don't you?"

Anger kindled in the woman's heavily made up eyes, breaking past the careful façade of indifference. "Fuck, yes. Punch 'em a couple extra times for me, okay?" She pulled a small phone out of hiding in the skin-tight purple mini-skirt that she wore, and flipped it open. A moment after she prodded a speed dial button with one long, lacquered nail, she began speaking, "Hey… You still want info on anybody who asked about that redhead, right? Well, I've got something for you – if you make it worth my while. Yeah? Well, nothing is free, asshole. Sometimes, the payoff just isn't in hard cash…"


	15. Chapter 15: Bait

**_Reflections: Bait _**

_Chapter 15_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

* * *

"Siberian?" The distorted voice using his code name was unrecognizable, and Ken nearly dropped the cell phone in his confusion. The, something clicked, and he understood that what he was hearing was less due to a lousy connection than it was to an attempt to conceal the speaker's identity, to avoid getting caught by anyone who might be tapping the call.

"M-- "

"Stop." Their handler's tone was implacable, and that more than anything else convinced the younger man that his guess was right; it was Manx. "We're falling back and going into deep cover. Your team is going to be on your own for a while. I'm sending an encrypted file with what little we've got to Bombay; he'll know where to pick it up." And just as abruptly as it had begun, the bizarre call was over, and he was listening to the rapid beep of an empty line.

"Omi… I think the shit has hit the fan." Ken said slowly. "That was Manx. Something's happened."

"What did she say? Exactly, word for word." The small blond was intently focused, his normal cheerfulness forgotten in the face of a larger, looming threat. He was nodding vigorously when Ken finished, smiling grimly. "I know where she means. I've got a back door account on a secure server. We've used it a couple of times to exchange files that were too sensitive to route any other way." Blue eyes gone dark as midnight met Ken's worried gaze, as he gave one final, serious nod. "And yes, the shit has definitely hit the fan. I know we're supposed to be waiting to see if Honey's phone call yields any results, but I need to get a look at Manx's message."

Ken hesitated. They had left Honey only moments earlier, after again warning her to get as far away as possible. With not having any clue where the enemy might strike from, they couldn't afford to go running off. But, neither could they ignore a warning themselves; Kritiker didn't just up and disappear without good reason.

Manx didn't abandon Weiss.

Seeing his indecision, Omi pushed. "There's an internet café a couple of blocks from here, Ken-kun. We _need_ to see what Manx thought was important enough to call about."

"Yeah. Okay. You're right."

Ken was a little surprised when his companion wheeled about and led them to a grungy, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that looked just like any one of a thousand student hang-outs across the city, but then it struck him that the location was perfect – an anonymous IP connection, on a machine that no one would expect them to access, in a part of Tokyo that there was no reason for them to be in. And best of all, the only key to where Omi was going online existed in the boy's brain. There was no disc, no software trail that could lead the pursuers to them.

It didn't surprise him, however, that the petit blond stepped up to the bored cashier and paid for the use of a machine as if he did this sort of thing every day. For all Ken knew, Omi might have scoped out the café before, even though it was a long ways from the flower shop, his school, or any place else that they tended to go. Omi selected a machine well away from the plate glass front windows, and Ken pulled up a chair, unobtrusively blocking the view of anyone inside who might care enough to try to watch over their shoulders.

The hacker's focused air of concentration was completely at odds with his cute, boyish features and wide eyes, and Ken found himself studying the oblivious profile intently. Stress, and maybe time, too, had hollowed the fair cheeks a little, bringing out the contours of the bones underneath. There were stubborn blue stains that spoke of too many late nights and too much missed sleep beneath the round eyes that by shape and color hinted at a foreign, non-Japanese ancestry, just as did his fine, corn silk hair.

And God help him, Ken thought Omi was just as beautiful as Aya.

The object of his scrutiny shot him a quick glance. "I'm in, and I don't think you're going to like this. One of Kritiker's offices got hit about two hours ago. There were six dead, and an unknown number of computer files were compromised before the failsafe system kicked in and wiped the local server. Manx figures that whoever it was is connected to the bunch we're up against, because some surveillance photos from a stand-alone camera that they missed shows guys in the same black gear as the ones that hit us. Her theory is that somebody played connect-the-dots with the info on the three safe houses: the Fujita Masahiro apartment, the mansion, and the loft."

Ken flinched but kept his voice down to a dull whisper, "Why?" Omi grimaced as he hurriedly went to work erasing any trace of his presence from the rented pc.

"Accounts. The money to pay for the office came out of the same account as Aya's cover apartment. It was well buried, but someone who knows what they're doing could probably find it."

"Implying that these guys know what they're doing?"

Omi turned fully around in his chair, abandoning the darkened screen, then got to his feet. "Is there any doubt in your mind? Hm?"

"No…" Ken fell into step beside him as they left the nondescript café, his brows drawn down into a dark frown as he mulled over the sparse information. Abruptly, he muttered, " 'Follow the money.' "

"Huh?"

"Something Yohji said one time, when he was blabbing on. Basically, money is the grease that drives the world. Or oil. Something like that. Anyway, you can find anything – or anyone – if you can get a hold of the money trail."

"Maybe." At Omi's direction, they slid into another of the concealing alleys that crisscrossed the neighborhood. "Look, Manx is pretty sure that they didn't get anything that would lead them to Weiss, so we're probably safe enough for now. But if we don't have any luck tonight, or if Yohji-kun and Aya-kun don't turn up any solid leads, I think we should follow Kritiker's example and disappear. Information's no good if we're too dead to enjoy it."

Dead. A shiver ran down the athlete's spine. He wasn't superstitious, exactly, but the idea that someone had just walked over his grave refused to go away. Maybe they _should_ give up, separate, and run.

It would mean not seeing the others – Omi, Aya, and even annoying Yohji – for a long time. Yet, the alternative, to try to stay together and to continue to fight might lead to disaster.

Omi reached up and patted his shoulder, murmuring, "I don't want to loose you, either. Not now. And I won't give up the others without a fight. All of you, you're my family." At Ken's reluctant nod, the teen forced a grin. "After all, you did pinky-swear. I _have_ to stick around long enough to collect!"

"Brat!" But in spite of himself, a chuckle escaped. Omi was right, Weiss was _his_ family too, and Ken didn't intend to give any of them up. "Okay. Let's head for the area Honey told them we were in, and bait that trap. The fuckers won't know what hit them."

* * *

"Somehow, it figures that it would rain." Ken remarked gloomily as they rendezvoused in a dimly lit alley to get their bearings. A sudden gust rattled the trash bag that he had improvised a poncho out of, drowning out Omi's reply and forcing them into the sheltered lee of a dark green dumpster.

Beside him, Omi sneezed and repeated thickly, "We're going to have to abort the mission." Muffled behind a tissue, the younger Weiss sneezed again and added with a sigh, "Crap."

"Abort? Noooo…" His whine sounded petulant, but Ken couldn't help it. "We can't. Not now. We might not have the chance to try again tomorrow."

"Ken-kun, don't be an idiot. If we stay out here, we're going to attract even more attention. I mean, do _you_ see anyone else stupid enough to hang out on the street in this weather?" Omi's impatient, stuffed-up growl made it clear that as far as he was concerned, Ken had passed the idiot-threshold some time back, and was sinking fast. And, looking down into a face made even more pallid by contrast with the dark, rain-soaked bangs that clung to it, the brunet had to admit that his friend had a point. It was stupid to keep wandering around in the freezing cold. But if they gave up, who knew if there would be another chance? Shivering, Ken leaned against the side of the dumpster and tried to ignore the stench of rotten food – and worse – that hung in the dank air.

Omi pressed up against his side, trying to share a bit of his own warmth, and switched to persuasive wheedling. "Come on, Ken-kun… Let's get inside someplace. Just for a little while, okay?"

"Yeah… I guess." Giving up rankled, but it wasn't as if they had any choice; Omi was right that continuing to loiter in the area was going to hurt their chances of locating Aya's kidnappers, rather than help. And now, with Kritiker on the run, time was their enemy as well. Ken slung an arm loosely around his partner's shoulders. "So where did you have in mind?"

"I noticed some of the hookers go into a bar down the street a ways. I was thinking we could try in there." Omi answered eagerly.

"Uh, no offense, but you _really_ don't look old enough for a bar." protested Ken. And he didn't. If Omi had come across as 'jail bait' when he was clean and dry, now that he was enveloped in Ken's out-sized black wind breaker, the disturbing effect was that of a kid playing dress-up in his dad's clothes. There was no way that whatever bouncer the bar employed wasn't going to take one look, and heave the both of them back out onto the pavement. And that thought brought to mind another problem; namely that if they were going to salvage anything from the scenario they had laid out, Omi was going to have to enter the bar alone. When Ken said as much, the other drenched Hunter scowled.

"Crap." Omi repeated petulantly. Then he scrubbed booth hands over his face, pushing back his dripping hair. "Okay. I go in first. If I don't land on my ear back outside thirty seconds later, you follow me in. That'll be in keeping with our cover story, that you're tailing me. Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky, and the people we're trying to catch will turn up there to get out of the rain, too."

Ken nodded and turned the smaller blond loose with a gentle shove in the direction of their target. "The sooner you get going, the sooner we'll dry out."

"I'm going, I'm going…" Omi shot him a wan version of his normal, mega-watt grin and, sneakers squelching, slogged off through the standing puddles toward the glowing neon sign that marked the bar's location. Ken waited until he saw the brief bar of light cut off as the door closed behind his friend, and then began his own slow approach.

The warmth of the gust of stale air that hit him in the face when his turn came to ease open the door was very welcome. On the other hand, the reek of cigarette smoke it carried made Ken wrinkle his nose; it reminded him of Yohji, and not in a good way. On the older blond, the mingled scents of sex, smoke, and alcohol came across as weirdly exciting, but here in a shabby Tanagawa dive, it was just disgusting. Ken couldn't fathom why anyone who wasn't forced to would hang out in a place like that.

In keeping with the smell, the look of the place with its cracked linoleum and mismatched furnishings wasn't any more inviting, but somehow, it was still packed with people, dressed in a mix of tawdry finery and dull blue and brown work clothes. He had to wriggle his way sideways, along the wall, to catch sight of Omi leaning over the end of the scuffed bar, deep in earnest conversation with the bartender. It was a good thing that the tall figure with the short-cropped black hair and tight, white shirt was a woman, because otherwise Omi's pleading puppy-dog act would have come across as more of a 'drowned rat.' As it was, the bartender's folded arms and growing, irritated frown didn't look too promising.

"Please." Omi begged. "I've got I.D. that says I'm old enough, but if it'll make you feel any better, I won't drink anything. I just gotta find a place to stay, okay?"

The bartender flicked a contemptuous glance at the I.D. clutched in the boy's hand. Ken had reason to know that the quality was first rate; like any Omi manufactured, his Hayami Yuki persona would stand up to even the most exacting scrutiny. Unless, of course, it was that of a bar keep who didn't care about anything except keeping minors out of her establishment. Then, they were royally screwed.

The woman's mouth drew down into a hard line. "Look, kid. I already told you, this isn't a half-way house for runaways. If you're after a place like that, you're gonna have to go see that scum, Iida. Course, it'll be a while, till he's out and about again. So, why don't you just run along home to your Mommy instead?"

"Because I can't." Omi's voice dropped into its lowest register, and his wide blue eyes took on a matching, hardened glitter. He unzipped the baggy windbreaker and pushed the enveloping fabric back, exposing a vee of pale chest and the delicate wings of his collar bones. The bartender's expression shifted subtly as she took in the dark, metallic sheen of the nearly transparent shirt and the way it clung damply to the teen's slender figure. Omi saw his advantage, and pressed it. "Iida-san set me up with somebody a couple of months ago. But the guy's wife got wise, and with the trouble over the Hot Body, it was simpler for him to dump me. I used to have a nice room over on Yasukuni Dori-- " In spite of her annoyance, the woman's mouth twitched at his use of the local nickname for Tanagawa's less-than-grand main drag, choked as it was with cheap apartments and boarding houses. A brief smile quirked the youth's pink lips, a visible _gottcha!_ as he went for the kill. "With Iida-san out of action, I don't expect you to take any risks for me, or to set me up with a new client, or anything. I just need a place to stay till the rain lets up." He paused for a beat, then said. "I can pay."

Calculation replaced scorn and mistrust in her black eyes. "Twelve thousand Yen. You can stay down here till we close, and then bunk the rest of the night with Aoko-chan." From his observation post, Ken nearly choked when she named the price; it was on par with a decent private hotel room in a touristy part of Tokyo; but Omi didn't bat an eyelash.

"Throw in a hot bath, and some dry clothes, and it's a deal."

"Let's see the color of your money first." she retorted. Omi's smile morphed into a smirk as he dug a crumpled handful of notes out of a voluminous pocket on his cargo shorts. He smoothed out enough to meet her demands, and the woman nodded as she held out her hand. "Aoko-chan's with a customer, so you'll have to wait till she's done. In the meantime, you must be starved. I'll get you an instant ramen."

Envious, Ken's stomach rumbled. But even though no one was visibly paying him any attention, he didn't dare get too close to his partner, and he definitely didn't think that the bartender's generosity would extend to feeding another stray, anyway. Instead, he settled into an unobtrusive corner and prepared to wait out the remainder of the evening while nursing a bottle of cheap beer. Between the heat generated by the close-packed bodies in the bar, and the boredom generated by watching a third-rate soccer game out of South Africa on the TV mounted high on the wall, the weary brunet found his mind drifting back to Aya, and the what-ever-it-was that they had engaged in.

First off, did it count as sex? Judging by the spark that jumped to life in his groin, his libido was voting 'Hell, yes!' but the thinking side of his brain wasn't so sure. In fact, in a dark, humiliated corner, Ken's bruised psyche was whimpering over the unfairness of it all; he had had Aya – difficult, gorgeous, 'shut-up-and-die' Aya – in his bed for the better part of the night, and hadn't gotten a whole lot out of the experience. Yeah, sure, Yohji was right, Ken hadn't exactly objected to any of it, either, but it was still pretty hard on the ego.

And, worst of all, Ken wanted to do it again.

And then there was his close encounter of the alley kind with his best friend. Omi was maturing into his own brand of beauty, and Ken would be lying if he claimed that he wasn't seriously attracted. He tugged haphazardly at a handful of hair that was drying into ragged spikes and sighed. What Ken _didn't_ need was to start trying to compare the two young men, because while both were an integral part of his life as an assassin, the differences far out-weighed the similarities. It was enough to say that Omi was smart, funny, and sweet where Aya was acerbic and tormented. And that both were as sexy as Hell.

His hormones were voting for another try on that front, too.

It was just so fucking unfair. Somehow, the universe had switched from 'Hidaka Ken, celibate,' to 'Hidaka Ken, up to his ass in bishounen,' and neglected to warn him of the incoming barrage. While, granted, the ex-soccer player didn't exactly want to _avoid_ the opportunities presented him any more, the whole situation was more up Yohji's alley than his. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of laying the mess at the playboy's feet and begging for advice, but memories of a certain gleeful hilarity squashed the idea. No, on second thought, Ken would tough it out on his own.

The bar's single, harried waitress wriggled her way through the crowd and handed him another plastic bottle of half-warm beer. Ken made a face, but dug out the money none the less. Drinking was making him even more tired, and a bit light-headed to boot, but not drinking – and not spending - would see him out on the street and separated from his younger companion. It wasn't that he had doubts about Omi's abilities when it came to taking care of himself, but rather that the way life had been treating them lately, the brunet wasn't about to take chances.

Fed, and dressed in a dry girl's tee-shirt that proclaimed 'Party Princess' in shockingly pink glitter characters, the other Hunter was far from threatening. If anything, the androgynous cuteness made him look like he ought to be at a high school pep rally rather than a seedy, working class bar. And it definitely suited Omi's cover persona far better than it did his real nighttime occupation as a member of Weiss. For sitting out in the open, trying to attract attention, Omi's get-up was very effective. Grinning with false regret, he had already had to turn down a couple of offers from ordinary factory men with a determined shake of his sleek blond head.

Maybe that was why Omi's latest suitor took so long to register on Ken's radar.

Sliding off his stool at the bar, the petit hacker was pulling on the still-wet windbreaker with a grimace when Ken shook himself and sat up straight. What Omi wasn't doing was making eye-contact with his teammate. If anything, he was determinedly _not_ looking Ken's way. The slightly built youth took a step in the direction of the door, only to be occluded from the athlete's sight by a man in faded dungarees who was easily as tall as Yohji, and probably twice as wide. The man had his head tilted attentively in the boy's direction, and a possessive hand gripped the black-clad elbow. Ken's eyes widened in shock as a second man joined the first on route to the door, and he had to suppress the urge to duck guiltily when their intense, predatory gaze swept across the room.

But the second that they were out the door, he abandoned his beer and went snaking through the throng in pursuit. There was no way that he was going to allow them out of his sight. For one thing, his instincts were screaming that the two men had somehow gotten the drop on the littlest assassin, because there was no other explanation for the teenager's apparent docility. To just get up and leave meant a gun to Omi's ribs, or some kind of a threat to the absent part of their team. By ignoring Ken's presence rather than sounding the alarm, the Weiss tactician was saying 'they don't know about you, but I trust that you'll see what's happening.' Ken just hoped that the trust wasn't misplaced.

With their Asian features, neither of the men fit the descriptions that Weiss had of the French-Vietnamese, or of the Slav, but they obviously weren't ordinary working stiffs, either. Flanking Omi, the two had cut through the oblivious bar crowd like sharks through a shoal of herring, and that was a bad sign. The men had moved like they knew how to use those big bodies with efficient, deadly precision, and it was with relief that Ken hid behind another trio of patrons staggering out the door.

The precaution proved to be a smart one; a third man detached himself from the shadows when the drunken group emerged into the sheeting rain. Ken tugged a corner of his improvised poncho up to cover his head and coincidentally conceal his face as his human shields complained loudly and struggled with coat collars and hoods. The stranger melted back into hiding, although Ken was positive he could feel the speculative stare drilling in between his shoulder blades as he turned his back.

Thankfully, the knot of bar customers split up, scattering to the right and left along the shimmering, rain-slicked sidewalk. If they had stuck together as a unit, Ken would have been screwed. Instead, he was able to hustle along as if trying to keep up with one of them, and chase after Omi and his escort at the same time.

The problem was, it would only work until his quarry piled into a car, and that could be at any time.

Fuck, what had they been _thinking_ when they had come up with the hair-brained idea of using one of their own as bait?! Under cover of his plastic poncho, Ken fumbled for the cell phone hidden in his back pack, and swore raggedly. His only hope – _Omi's_ only hope lay in reaching the other pair of Hunters, and praying to God that they were someplace close by. For the moment, the bad guys were strolling along as if they hadn't a care in the world, while the length of their stride forced the smaller blond into a jog. Every time their purposeful progress approached a vehicle, Ken's heart leapt to his mouth. And, every time they continued on past, it settled back painfully into his chest.

Somewhere out in the rainy city, Yohji's phone just rang, and rang…

"Come on, you stupid son of a bitch, pick up the God damned phone!" Ken hissed. Struggling to keep his hands free for the knife tucked out of sight inside his shirt, he shifted the little silver rectangle to his other shoulder, mashing it against his jaw and ear. Nine rings… ten… It wasn't set up to bounce to voicemail. Twelve rings. Viciously, Ken stabbed the disconnect, and tried Aya's number instead. He hoped to God Abyssinian would pick up.

"Hai." One syllable, rendered faint and tinny by distance and a poor connection, but it was the sweetest sound imaginable. Ken slowed his pace, abandoning his flesh and blood shield and increasing the gap to keep his prey from noticing.

"We got trouble." he muttered. "Two guys picked Bombay up. We're on foot, and I'm tailing, but I don't know if I'll be able to keep up. I can't raise Balinese."

"Your location."

"Um…" Ken peered wildly about until he spotted a street sign.In typical Tokyo fashion, there were hardly any. "Roponogi Crossing.Heading north."

"You're half a block from the Hot Body." Aya said shortly. That this meant something to the surly redhead was clear from his tone, but the implications escaped the frustrated athlete.

"Would you just spit it out, already? What the hell are you talking about?" he snarled under his breath. The trio ahead of him was cutting across the empty street, and there was absolutely no cover left.

"The building is boarded up. No one will be looking for them there. Approach with caution." The phone clicked as the older Hunter cut the connection.

The whorehouse. Of course. He was an idiot. Ken cursed himself roundly and sprinted back down the block for an alley mouth. That it was the same one where he had originally met Honey, on his first visit to Tanagawa, was an irony that wasn't lost on the young man; it was just one that he didn't have the luxury of appreciating right at the moment. He splashed through a deeper puddle, its surface darkly rainbowed with oil, and skidded into a smaller side passageway between two brick buildings. The rustling plastic of his trash bag poncho was stripped off and stuffed into an open garbage can as he shifted from haste to stealth. Ken slid the last couple of feet to the end of the gap, his shoulders rubbing against the moisture-slimed brick, but the cold and wet made no impression on his focused mind.

Sure enough, Aya had been right. There they came, Omi with his menacing bookends, and they were headed for the Hot Body, right across from Ken's hiding place. The boarded over front entrance swung open as if it were a normal door, and they vanished inside, taking his partner with them.

Ken sagged against the wall, stunned, then tensed as his brain kicked back into gear. There was no way of knowing how long it would take Aya to arrive, and whether he would be alone, or accompanied by the missing Balinese. That meant that effectively the Weiss team consisted of only Omi, and himself. The opposition, on the other hand, could easily number a dozen or more, given that they had been willing to send three men out to retrieve one scrawny-looking kid. The thought that that bartender could conceivably have given in and allowed his younger partner to remain just so that she could tip off the enemy crossed Ken's mind, and he shook his head to dislodge the idea. True or not, it didn't matter. What was important was that the smaller assassin was inside their opponents' territory, and currently his only back-up was stuck outside.

Harmless though he might appear, Omi was far from helpless. Aside from an unknown number of steel needles concealed on his person, the delicate-seeming boy was an accomplished martial artist in his own right, and could handle himself in an unarmed fight. He was swift, and agile, and against even well-trained opponents could generally hold his own. Unless they managed to grapple with him. Ken's overactive imagination supplied a graphic picture of his best friend being pulled apart by the two behemoths like a wishbone, and he gave a strangled moan. No, better not think about _that_. So long as his captors didn't make the connection to Aya, to Weiss, or to Kritiker, Omi would be safe.

Safe. Christ, what had they _done_ to make Omi go with them willingly?

Ken pressed his back to the wall and tried to think. Thanks to his earlier visit, he knew the area surrounding the closed-down brothel fairly well, and the Hunter was confident that he could pick out all the best places to post sentries, and avoid them accordingly. The dark and cold, and the confusing glitter and shine of reflections on the wet streets all would work in his favor when it came to being spotted visually. Trouble, however, lay in electronics, and thermal-sensing gear, because once he moved out from behind the concealing mass of the other buildings, sticking to the shadows wouldn't be enough. These guys weren't amateurs like the idiots that had set up the Hot Body's original surveillance cameras. He would need something good to carry him across the open ground to the Hot Body. Now, if he had Omi's help, it would be easy. The gifted hacker had been known to screw up the feed at a distance even on a stand-alone set of IR goggles. But Ken didn't have Omi, and that realization brought him full-circle back to why he desperately needed to find a way into the building across the street.

With sneaking up not an option, there were only two possible courses of action left open: one, to be blatant and obvious, and bluff his way in, and, two, to create a diversion. Given that he was soaked, shivering, about half the size of the guards he had seen so far, and lousy at poker, a diversion was looking better and better. But the question was, what?

If he could get close to the building, the assassin figured he could set it on fire, and drive the enemy out. But getting close would mean that he could sneak up on them, and didn't _need_ to set a fire. The wind driving the cold rain shifted, and a gust of it hit him squarely in the face. Shivering, Ken amended the discarded plan with the sour thought that it also presupposed that he could get a fire started. The way his luck was running, that wasn't too likely.

Although, a fire would be kind of nice… The athlete had played games in all kinds of weather during his brief career, and he could feel the creeping lassitude of hypothermia sapping his waning strength. The narrow crack between buildings was mostly protected from observation, but it was less than perfect where the weather was concerned. Ken closed his eyes briefly and chaffed at his chilled arms, trying to get the circulation going again. Spring wasn't the best time of year to be running around under-dressed, but he and Omi had been handicapped by the roles they were to play, and by what wardrobe Villa Weiss could provide. It was pure bad luck that the comparatively mild daytime weather had turned into a truly sucky night, between dropping temperatures and the persistent wet.

_Aya didn't say he was coming. _At the thought, Ken's hands halted, each gripping the opposite bicep in what turned into a desperate self-hug. He'd been standing there, assuming the older Hunter was on his way, but what if he didn't come? Traditionally, Aya's loyalty had always been to the mission first, and the team second. As Abyssinian, he had walked away from Weiss more than once, and it had been outside forces, like his sister's kidnapping, that had brought him back.

Not the team.

His fingers bit deep into the muscle as the worried brunet ran back over their brief conversation. Aya hadn't responded to Ken's unspoken suggestion that something was wrong with Balinese, either. Nor had he given any hints as to what was going on at his end. All he had done was to point the way to the Hot Body, and then hung up.

Without a watch, Ken had only the vaguest idea as to how long it had been since his partner and best friend had vanished into the boarded-up club. Maybe half an hour? Time-wise, it had to be pushing two in the morning; the barren streets were devoid of traffic and pedestrians, both, as the area's fragile nightlife died stillborn. Soggy trash lay in the gutters, and a street light on the nearer corner was flickering on and off in an electrical end-of-life cycle, fitfully illuminating the grimy, empty storefronts. It was hard to imagine that only a couple of weeks ago, when the whorehouse had been doing steady business, that the neighborhood had been jumping after dark.

Christ on a crutch, what was he going to _do_?

A soft scuff spun from behind spun Ken around, sending him into a crouch and a leap with his knife in his fist. The dark form that he crashed into staggered and gave way, saved from serious injury only because the smaller brunet's reflexes were slowed by cold and stiff muscles. Strong fingers clad in thin black leather closed around Ken's wrist, and slammed his hand into the bricks, costing him skin and control of the knife. Then he was spinning again, face first into the dirty wall and his arm was ruthlessly pinned to his shoulder blades, while a lean, wiry body pressed hard against his backside. Ken bucked, thrusting himself backwards with his free hand, but the narrowness of the passageway worked against him. Slammed into the wall again, his chin scraped painfully and the shorter assassin bit off a surprised yelp, turning it into a growl as berserker rage began to rise in his soul.

"Siberian!" The sharp hiss directly into his ear froze Ken, dissipating his fury.

"A- Aya?" he whispered. The body nailing him to the wall didn't so much relax as shift minutely, granting the younger man breathing space without releasing him. Ken took the chance to gulp in air, muttering, "Shit! That hurt…"

The tight grip on his wrist disappeared, and the brunet groaned as he slowly lowered his arm. He was used to relying on those muscles and tendons, used to the strains of hand-to-hand combat, but Aya knew just where the pressure points were that would negate Ken's strength, and they _hurt_. Being disarmed via a brick wall wasn't high on his list of fun activities, either. Both his hand and his chin were throbbing in time together. The only consolation was that Aya hadn't been trying to kill him, because there was a good chance that he would have succeeded.

"Where's Omi?" the low voice demanded.

"Inside… You were right; they went into the club." Ken answered quietly. He shivered again, noting with an increasingly distracted part of his brain that the stand-offish redhead hadn't moved away, but was still pressed lightly against him, warm and solid from thigh to hip, to back. Ken licked his lips hesitantly. "Hey… are you all right?"

"Hn." Aya released him, shifting to occupy the other assassin's original vantage point near the alley's mouth. Instead of his usual black trench coat, he wore a hip-length leather jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, both in a dull slate-gray that blended into the wet darkness. With the hood pulled up over his red hair and pale skin, he was nearly invisible.

"Aya…" Instincts were warning Ken that something _was_ wrong, but he couldn't get a handle on what. Tension vibrated through the slender man, coming off in nearly palpable waves, and in turn it made younger Hunter wary. Then an anomaly clicked, and he demanded, "Yohji didn't come with you, did he? What happened to him?"

Silence. Then, softly, "I don't know. I couldn't find him."

Ken grabbed Aya's shoulder and wrenched him deeper into the narrow gap, away from the possibility of detection should he give in to the temptation to shake the man silly. "What the fuck do you mean, 'couldn't find him'?"

The hood slipped back halfway. Aya, normally pale, was bloodless in what little flickering light penetrated their hiding place. The emotionless masks that had so frustrated Ken were again stripped away, but this time it wasn't joy that was revealed, but grief that made his jaw clench helplessly. A tremor shook the deep voice. "Yohji went into the police headquarters, and told his story. Everything was fine. But then he didn't come out."

"When was this?" Ken's fingers dug into Aya's leather coat, and he felt the man wince, but he didn't ease the frantic pressure. Something _had_ happened to the playboy; Ken's gut roiled and he swallowed hard.

"About 4:00 pm."

Ten or more hours earlier. A million things could have happened in that span of time. Yohji might already be dead, his body dumped far out into the bay, or… "Jesus, Aya," Ken whispered, "Why didn't you call us? We could have-- "

"Done nothing. Neither you nor Omi would be effective against the police. He, because of his role in Yohji's recent subterfuge, and you because of your past history. The same is also true of me. There are those on the force who might still remember…" Aya replied quietly, allowing the distraught ball player to mangle his arm. Their eyes met, and Ken nodded slowly.

"Yeah… your parents' murders. I remember, too." And he did, even though the brunet suspected that there were still large segments of Aya's history that he was unaware of. Omi had filled him in on some of the high points after they had learned of the swordsman's encounter with Benson during the auction investigation, but there was a lot that even their hacker hadn't been able to ferret out. Kritiker could bury the truth deep when they wanted to. Ken forced his fingers to uncurl, although he left them resting lightly on the leather sleeve, and took a shaky breath of his own. "So what do we do?"

"I sent an email to one of Manx's anonymous accounts. There's no way of knowing when it will be received, but there's very little else we can attempt." Paradoxically, Aya's rich voice was steadier, more in control, even as the stiff trembling in his limbs grew.

The last of the fight and fury drained out of the hot-tempered younger man. Much though he hated to admit it, Aya was right. None of them dared to approach the cops. And, with the possibility that Kritiker itself had been compromised still looming, going openly to their handler was also impossible. He stroked a hand gently down Aya's arm, mutely offering an apology.

Interestingly enough, the gesture drained some of the tension from the red haired man, leaving him docile under Ken's touch. That, in and of itself, was a warning. Ken really didn't want to push any more, but he sighed. "Aya… I think the same people have got Yohji _and _Omi. Omittchi gave in real easily, and just went with them. I think it was because they told him that they'd taken Yohji somehow."

"Yes." Aya bowed his head. Concerned, Ken dared to lean into him. Stiffly resistant for a moment, Aya finally fumbled with the buttons fastening his coat, opening it and enveloping the shorter man into its leather-scented warmth. "You're cold." He seemed surprised by the discovery, and the slowly thawing brunet snorted.

"Yeah." It felt heavenly to not be chilled to the bone. After a moment, Ken worked up the nerve to slide his arms around the other man's slim waist, carefully hugging him. The changeable wind veered around again, leaving them in a pocket of calm. Aya allowed his cheek to rest against the soaked, sun-streaked hair and that tiny gesture was enough to pull a shuddering exhalation out of Ken. Closing his eyes, he fought back unexpected tears.

"What's wrong?" The sound was barely audible, just a faint vibration of bone and muscle, but Ken tightened his embrace.

"I… was afraid you weren't going to come." The confession was just as faint, addressed to the damp cotton knit of the sweatshirt that the redhead wore beneath his coat. Aya shifted uncomfortably, then forced himself into rigid stillness. Ken's hands clenched into the fabric against the small of the swordsman's back, wordlessly denying him the chance to retreat. If there was no escape for one miserable, lost assassin, there would be none for the other.

Aya wrapped his coat a little more closely around them both, and hesitantly cleared his throat. "I didn't want to." he admitted. "But… Omi… For Omi, I abandoned my post, my task… Even though I know Kritiker has gone into hiding, and that we may not have another chance."

"There were phone calls out from the cops?"

"Aa. I was tracing several promising leads, using the equipment that Manx lent us, and Omi's software." Tonelessly, Aya wrote off what might have been their only chance to track down his assailants before they could move again, before they disappeared back into Tokyo's dense population or, worse, left the country entirely. And before Weiss was forced to follow suit. The brunet felt a twinge of regret that it had been his frantic interruption that had scuttled the other half of Weiss's objectives, maybe for good.

"I'm sorry." whispered Ken. This time, when he tightened his hold on Aya, he meant it as comfort, not as a threat. The slender man nodded slightly, his cheek rubbing unpleasantly over wet hair.

"It was my decision. I should not have allowed Omi to get close to me… He should not have… wanted… someone so soaked in blood and sin, as I am. If it had not been for me, he would not have gotten involved." The iron command had cracked on 'wanted,' and let a world of frustration and loneliness leak out before Aya could stuff it all back under wraps. "I can't forget that I've slept with him in my arms."

Ken hesitated, unsure how far he dared to push, but wanting – himself – to feel Aya's willing embrace.

But Yohji and Omi – especially Omi – came first.

He took a deep breath. "Aya. Screw the mission. Let's go waste the bastards and get our friends back."

It was amazing just how much the swordsman's slim body could give away when one was allowed close enough to touch him. By the feel of the sudden, sharply indrawn breath, and the slight but none the less real rocking back onto his heels, Aya telegraphed startlement, and alarm. A barely visibly widening of his shadowed eyes, and the corresponding dilation of the inky darkness within corresponded to conflicted fear as the lean muscles within the circle of Ken's arms bunched, ready to flee. "I won't kill." Aya hissed raggedly. "I can't."

"Aya! Don't fall apart on me." Ken pleaded. "I need you. _They_ need you." Aya flinched away, but the compact athlete pushed him into the bricks, refusing to let go. "Fuck it all, I don't care if you kill them or not – I can take care of it if it needs doing. But I _do_ need your brain, Aya. I'm not smart like you." He paused for a beat, staring up into the stricken features, then whispered, "Please, Aya… I need you. Help me."

* * *

To Be Continued… 


	16. Chapter 16: Mirror Images

Reflections: Mirror Images 

_Chapter 16_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**Author's Notes: **A lot has happened since the last up-date. Aside from my devoting a good deal of time to other fics, Reflections has been gifted with not one, but two pieces of art Lyl (author of the lovely side story, "Darkness"), and Literary Eagle have both done drawings of characters from the story. Lita's can most easily be seen on her website if you should happen to be interested. http:literaryeagle. fanartother. html_

_I can't tell you how thrilled I am! Thank you both._

_And, to all the kind reviewers, a heartfelt thank you as well. Coming from the old world of print 'zines and paper fandom, it's a novel and rather pleasurable feeling to see a review so soon after I've written something. And – wow! – some of the comments have been so great!_

_L.A. Mason (aka LibraryCat)_

_P.S. Oh, dear… My entire, loyal cadre of beta-readers is unavailable for one reason and another. Any errors in plot, grammar, punctuation, etc. are entirely my fault!_

"Van." The word, murmured in Aya's low voice from just above the level of Ken's ear, confused him. He didn't want to think, but just to hold on tight and pretend that the disastrous evening had never happened, that Omi and probably Yohji hadn't gotten sucked into a trap, leaving a crippled Weiss. Unfortunately, the implacable red head wasn't going to let him. "Ken. Now. We need to get to the van and regroup."

Reluctantly, the younger Hunter relaxed his hold and stepped back from Aya's warmth. After being enfolded in the man's leather coat, the chilly rain cut like a knife, and Ken shivered.

But Omi was waiting, too, and there was only the pair of them left to get him - and Yohji - back from the enemy.

Aya shrugged off his jacket and settled it around the miserable brunet's shoulders. Then he was slipping noiselessly down the narrow alley, cat-footed in the darkness. The concrete pavers formed a shallow vee down the center, running with black water headed for the storm sewers, but somehow the shadow Ken followed avoided splashing ankle-deep. Grumpily, the younger man shook one soaked foot and reflected that _he_ should just be so lucky.

The white van had been parked unobtrusively under another burnt-out street light the next block over from the boarded-up whorehouse. With its scuffed paint and dented fender, it looked completely at home sandwiched between an older sedan and another delivery vehicle. Aya paused in the alley to inspect the approach to the Kritiker vehicle, before crossing the open stretch of sidewalk in a couple of swift strides. Ken followed, arriving just as his teammate opened the rear doors and clambered inside. A few seconds later, and they were both squinting in the blessedly dry darkness. Sighing quietly, Aya flicked a switch and lit the interior in a dim, underwater blue glow.

Startled, Ken blinked and peered around. A heavy curtain kept the light from leaking out into the driver's portion of the small vehicle. The windowless rear, where he and his companion crouched, was cramped: a steel rack loaded with an impressive array of surveillance hardware was bolted to floor and ceiling against one side-wall, while equipment-filled storage shelves occupied the opposite side. A small rolling chair had been shoved forward nearly into the drapes, leaving just enough space in the narrow center aisle for Aya and himself to stand hunched over. If Ken were to straighten up, he would crack his head on the underside of the van's exposed metal frame. Claustrophobia made him grimace, and mutter, "Geez, Aya… Nice place you've got here."

Aya didn't bother to respond to the comment, but busied himself with pulling a duffel bag from the bottom shelf. He nodded at a small monitor and said, "Turn that one on. It will show you the view outside."

"Oh. Okay, sure." Obediently, Ken reached for it, then turned back just in time to watch Aya's lean back emerge from his wet sweatshirt as he stripped. The clear ripple of muscle was washed in shades of electronic blue and darker shadow. "Urk."

Emerging from the wadded up fabric, sharp eyes rendered an odd blue-black by the dim lighting glared at the floundering brunet. Aya pulled on a dry black turtleneck, and fished another one from the bag on the floor that he balled up and threw at Ken. "You're soaked. Change clothes." A pair of faded black jeans followed.

"Hey!" the younger man protested, fending off the assault. "I'm not- " The complaint died as Aya efficiently peeled off his own pants, loosely folding them before dropping them out of the way by the curtain. The red head glanced up, frowning.

"Now what?" he snapped impatiently.

_Now what?_ Ken could think of a few dozen inappropriate answers for _that_ question. Most of which involved long, muscular legs and the body that they belonged to. Blushing, he closed his mouth with a snap. Whatever else might have changed since their missing teammate had been recovered, Aya still had the capacity to make Ken feel like a complete idiot. He _knew_, intellectually, that it was the worst possible time to start thinking in terms of what it would take to make Aya incoherent, but that didn't stop his traitorous libido from spinning lurid, Technicolor fantasies. Oh God, but he wanted desperately to wrap himself around that demanding steel body, to feel Aya arch, taut but unyielding in his arms. Ken didn't care if he was top, or bottom; it would be like making love to a sword: beautiful and deadly.

He realized he was still staring stupidly when one angular red brow quirked up, and Aya's lightning-fast slap made his ear ring. "Ow!"

"Clothes. Now." Repeated in that implacable baritone, the command allowed no arguments, but Ken's jaw jutted out mulishly.

"Only if you turn around, first. I'm, ah, not wearing anything under these."

A second eyebrow, tinted nearly purple instead of its normal wine red by the strange illumination, joined the first. Aya replied calmly, "I know."

"You _what_?" It came out in a squeak that would have been more appropriate – or at least more expected – from Omi. Ken clutched the armful of clothing in front of his groin and tried to back up, ending up with the interior door release goosing him painfully in the rear. He was treated to a tiny, upward lift of Aya's pale lips; the swordsman's version of Yohji's trademark smirk. It grew marginally broader as the man seated himself on the lone chair to pull his boots back on.

There was something just so terribly unfair about having finally Aya unbend enough to tease when they had a mission to focus on.

Ken's scowl turned ferocious as his fingers clenched into the mangled fabric. To his surprise, a strong hand closed over his, and squeezed. "Come here." A pause, then, "Please." Reluctantly, the younger Hunter went.

Bent over by the threat of the low ceiling, Ken standing wasn't much taller than Aya sitting. But even if he had been, he didn't think that he would have felt in control of the situation. Approaching had placed him between the red head's knees, and when Aya's grip shifted to the exposed crest of his hips, Ken felt as if he were going to spontaneously combust from some peculiar mixture of passion, and panic. For a second he thought the other man was going to kiss him, but instead Aya fixed his gaze on the middle of Ken's cropped tee-shirt and began to speak, his normally toneless voice vibrating with intensity.

"We _will_ get them back, and not because of some phenomenal wit or wisdom on my part, Ken. I'm as mortal, and as fallible as anyone else. But we will do it, because we – all of us – are a team. I can no longer envision a world that does not have the three of you in it, and I will not accept that Omi and Yohji's loss, now when we have just found one another, is fated. I refused to give in when all the doctors said that my sister's case was hopeless, and I will not give up now." He paused, slanted eyes flicking up in an effort to gauge Ken's response, and hesitantly, the brunet found himself nodding.

It was hard not to agree, when Aya exerted the full force of his considerable will. And what he was saying was true: if anyone could make something happen just through the power of his desires, it would be Abyssinian. Tension that he hadn't known was knotting his stomach eased, and Ken blew out a soft breath. "Yeah." he agreed. "We'll do it." Dropping the wadded up clothing, the athlete let hope buoy him, driving away the debilitating exhaustion as he looped his arms lightly around Aya's shoulders and again leaned into him. And, just as he had in the alley even though this time there was no leather coat's warmth to share, the red haired man's arms wrapped Ken into a hug.

"I owe you for last night." Aya said huskily. The tip of his index finger traced the faint line of a scar just below Ken's bottom rib, and the younger assassin had to swallow hard to avoid sounding strangled.

"Y- you don't owe me. For anything."

"What if I want to?" The hand had slid around behind Ken's back, underneath the sagging weight of his clammy shirt, stroking the suddenly tense curve of the brunet's spine. A second warm touch joined the first, and Ken thought for certain that his heart had quite beating altogether as every drop of blood in his body rushed elsewhere. Silky burgundy hair teased against his abdomen as Aya tilted his head and brushed a light kiss over Ken's chilled skin. "It seems very likely that the enemy is aware of the existence of all four of us. Given that your contact, Honey, had met both you and Yohji, it's a reasonable assumption…"

"Um, Honey i- is… ah…" stammered the younger man. It was inconceivable that that low, sexy voice could go back to talking about the mess that they were in, while at the same time the slender, callused fingers and the clever mouth drove him absolutely nuts. Ken had a brief thought that Aya was actually a closet sadist, but another kiss, followed by a puff of heated breath against his navel, made his knees shake and drove the idea clear out of his head. Still, he had to try again. "O- Omi and I, we saw Honey again tonight. She had a phone number for passing tips to those strangers visiting her cousins… Misha—Aw, shit, Aya…" Ken's voice died away into a whine; Aya's tongue had traced the rim of his belly button and he swore his eyes crossed at the sensation. Certainly he lost the ability to follow a logical train of thought at the sweet, hot wetness.

"You had her call the number?" Teeth scraped where the tongue had lately gone, and Ken had to lock his knees before they folded.

"Yeah. Gave the cover story, 'bout Omi… being… and me, following him."

"Hmm." The thoughtful noise vibrated deliciously. If it hadn't been so damned cold in the unheated van, it would have melted the shivering athlete into a puddle of goo on the spot. As it was, he gave a shaky laugh.

"Hey, you know this is the strangest debriefing I've ever had. Wonder if Birman would do it to Yohji? It'd blow his last fuse."

"Possibly." Ken's skin felt the smile more than his ears heard it. Then Aya was releasing him and shoving the dry clothing back into his arms instead, saying, "You're cold. Change. I won't look."

Except, now he kind of wished the swordsman _would_ watch, would devour him with those strange eyes that were so reticent, yet carried a discrete heat in them as Aya scooted the chair back, turning to a laptop wedged into the collection of surveillance gear.

"Did you receive a call from Manx?" Abstracted, the red head asked the question as his fingers flew across the computer's keyboard.

Ken hopped awkwardly on one leg as he struggled with the sodden fabric of his jeans. Once they let go, he kicked them to the side and nodded, then amended the gesture to saying, "Yeah. Omi picked up a file from her. Seems a Kritiker site got hit hard, and they've disappeared into the woodwork till the heat is off. Did you get it, too?"

"Yes. Her last official act was to provide a link to an file storage site on the internet where she had left a couple of encrypted files, the most important of which was a floor plan to the Hot Body." The chair squeaked as Aya shifted, reaching for a sheet of paper slowly being spit out by a tiny printer. He extended it in Ken's direction, eyes still firmly locked on the screen. Accepting it, the athlete gave a quiet snort of amusement; obviously Aya intended to stick to his declaration that he wouldn't peek.

"Nice going away present, at least. Wish that bitch Birman was as accommodating." remarked Ken casually. Parts of the sketch were crooked, and others nearly unreadable, but it was still better than nothing at all. He rotated the print out until the main entrance was facing down, and it clicked with his mental impression of the surrounding streets. "Wonder how she got a hold of this?"

"She doesn't say." Aya paused. "Ken, I think you're doing Birman a disservice. She's not an affectionate individual, but she _is_ very good at her job. Don't let your own preconceptions blind you to that."

Annoyed, the other Hunter growled under his breath. "Screw that! You didn't hear her all the times we asked for help while you were missing. She didn't even want to admit you were taking solo assignments."

"And Birman was right to do so!" the older man retorted. Forgetting his promise, he swung the chair about and glared up at his half-dressed partner. "It was my decision to take on those jobs. I knew the risks, and found them to be acceptable. Putting other agents in harm's way in an effort just to recover me would have been the height of irresponsible behavior on her part."

" 'Irresponsible!' Jesus Fucking Christ, Aya. Just listen to yourself! The woman was willing to leave you out there to _die_." Furious, Ken took a deep breath, and stopped. He knew better than to shout while on a stake-out, but God it was tempting to blast the stubborn red headed prick with both barrels.

Aya's reply was equally low, and equally furious. "And perhaps it would have been better if I had. Omi and Yohji would not be in danger now, and perhaps your 'God' that you are so fond of calling on would have been pleased to have a chance to wipe the slate clean of my sins."

"You can't know that! For all we know, those bastards might have tracked us down anyhow, except there'd only be three of us left to fight 'em off. And for your information, they're the Dark Beasts, not us. You dying wouldn't have made a single fucking thing _right_!" The tenuous control on his temper snapped and Ken's fist shot out, fully intent on knocking a little common sense into that hard head at the same time that he knocked his ass to the floor. Aya's forearm deflected the blow, sending it crashing painfully into the steel equipment rack. But it was his quiet words that froze the follow-up punch in its tracks:

"Tell it to the innocents that I've killed. Because I am no better than the Beasts."

Anguished, Ken allowed his hand to drop to his side, fingers going lax. He whispered, "Shit, Aya… I didn't mean it like that." but the rigidly erect man had turned back to his laptop and resumed typing. Only the fumbling, uneven rhythm betrayed his agitation, until finally, after backspacing once too often, the man shoved his chair back and rose abruptly to his feet, cracking his skull against the van's roof. Ken's arms automatically reached for the slim form as it staggered.

"Aya, stop!" he pleaded. To his surprise, the swordsman made no effort to fend him off, only raising a hand gingerly to feel the top of his head. The shaking fingers were dabbed with shiny maroon when he lowered them, and an expression of hurt confusion streaked across features that were suddenly young and vulnerable. Startled, Ken tightened his grip as he was reminded that Aya was only a little older than he was himself; the red haired assassin was so self-possessed that Ken tended to forget that little detail. He sighed. "Sit down, before you fall down, you moron."

The mouth compressed tightly in pain twitched into a tiny smile, but Aya obeyed, Ken's hand still firmly gripping his shoulder.

There was a ton of stuff packed neatly into the storage side of the van, but at first glance, the former ball player didn't see the distinctive red cross on a white ground that he wanted. "Hey… where's the first aide kit?"

"Second shelf, on the end. But I doubt that this is a fatal wound." His voice was stronger, sounding more normal with the wry undercurrent of mocking humor that Ken was slowly coming to recognize. He wondered fleetingly why he had assumed the older assassin to be so completely devoid of a sense of humor up until now, but he shrugged the thought off.

"Huh. At least let me be the judge of that." Turning, Ken again found himself standing between a set of jeans-clad knees with Aya's hands on his hips, holding him steady. Then Abyssinian's thumbs rubbed slowly, distractingly. The breath left Ken's lungs in a _woosh_ as he stared down at the bloodied fingertips, and his next question came out strangled as he said, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want to." was the impatient reply.

There were hot patches forming on Ken's skin on the other side of his shirt, matched to each point of contact. Choking, he demanded, "Okay. You want to. Why now?"

"Because I am… relieved… that you weren't taken, as Omi and presumably Yohji were." the red head responded promptly. Ken goggled.

"You answered my question! You _talked._"

"Of course I did. It isn't that I can't speak, merely that I choose not to. There is enough inane conversation in the world without my adding to it." The statement, in its mix of arrogance and unconscious condescension was so typically Aya-ish, that in spite of himself, Ken began to laugh. Only Aya could take being caught in the tangle of relief, worry, and probably more than a little guilt, communicate it in a typically understated way, and somehow come out of it sounding as though he were doing a person a favor in the process. Things were still far from okay with the world, but they had slipped back onto the right track

"Ri-i-ight." Grinning, Ken stuffed the metal box back onto the shelf as Aya let go of him. Standing hunched over like that was a bitch on the back, so he settled cross legged on the floor instead, smile fading as he returned to business. "Okay, I figure it like this. They could have taken Omi in the front door and right out the back, but I kinda doubt it. So long as they stay in the Hot Body, they've got home field advantage, and that pretty much off-sets any pluses we get for being native to Tokyo, while they're the outsiders."

Resting his elbows on his knees, Aya leaned forward, intently listening. "Agreed. It would explain why they so openly _walked_ with Omi. They were counting on someone on our side seeing, and following. As Yohji would put it 'come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.' "

Ken chuckled; that did sound like the wire man with his fondness for silly hyperbole. Warming to the topic, the athlete added, "And I don't think we can count on them having the same crap surveillance gear that the original owners had, either. We'll have to expect that they're watching for us, and doing a good job at it. Do you think you can hack their system?"

"Possibly. Just as you're Omi's backup on explosives, I've been his on electronics. However, they will be watching for precisely that, and will undoubtedly have redundant systems in place." A tiny evil smirk appeared on the swordsman's otherwise expressionless features. "However, if we're lucky, we may have one small advantage to work with in that area: Honey's tapes."

"Huh?"

"We have actual footage from inside the whorehouse. It might be possible to substitute our own for theirs, depending on the locations they've selected for their cameras. I can see a number of possibilities along those lines. What we do not have, however, is an estimate of their other strengths, such as man-power, and the skills of that man-power."

Now that he was back on secure ground, planning an assault, Aya's hesitation was gone. Ken leaned back on his locked arms in relief, half allowing his shoulders to rest against the loaded storage shelves. What his teammate had said was true, but it would require a trip all the way back to the mountain cabin to retrieve those tapes, and then the time to manipulate the images with the van's equipment. Time the athlete feared that they didn't have, and he said as much.

"Incorrect. They won't torture Omi or Yohji gratuitously. They're no point, since they have no way to contact us, to let us know that there's a threat to their well-being. Look at their treatment of me – I was largely ignored during my captivity." Aya's low voice trembled minutely on the last word, and he turned back to the laptop and busied himself with pulling up another file on the brothel. "They will have expected us to move immediately, and it should already be apparent to them that we won't act tonight."

"Well… Then what _are_ we gonna do? I thought about setting a fire, and driving them out But I couldn't figure a way to get close enough." Even before Ken finished putting the idea on the table, Aya was shaking his head in negation.

"No." he said firmly. "It might force them out of the building, but they would probably leave Omi and Yohji inside, turning our move into a trap in the process."

"Leave them? Hey! That's sick." Ken complained. And it was. He feared fire enough, after nearly burning to death when his soccer career went up literally in flames, that his stomach roiled at the thought of Omi and Yohji being cavalierly abandoned that way.

"I agree." Steady, and calm, Aya could as easily have been discussing the weather. Except of course that the weather probably fell into that category of inane chatter, too, and Aya didn't do inane. Unaware of the reason behind Ken's derisive snort, the red haired man raised an eyebrow, but continued, saying "You have to remember, the only value that the hostages have is to draw the rest of us out of hiding. It would be entirely reasonable to leave them in the burning building in order to force us to go to their rescue."

Growling softly, Ken beat his clenched fist against the corrugated steel floor. It would be just like the bastards to do that, too. "Okay. Fine. We can't smoke 'em out. So… we don't go after them at all. We'll wait till they get tired and give up, and ditch Omi and Yohji like they did you. "

"Again, no. I was bait. The purpose behind letting me be found was to see where I would end up. I provided a trail for them to follow, where none existed. If we do nothing at all, they will very likely have no qualms about terminating the hostages."

That put a chill down Ken's back that had nothing to do with having stood outside in the cold rain. While whatever screwy internal logic that the swordsman subscribed to might have turned him off to killing, it didn't stop his brain from still thinking – or talking - like an assassin. _Terminating…_ Ew. Not a word the athlete liked to hear used in relation to his friends. The younger man sighed and confessed, "Then I'm out of ideas, Aya. What do you think we should do?"

"We need diversions. A fire has merit, but only if we apply it somewhere else. I was thinking that we might be able to use it to knock out electrical service to the area. That would negate much of the advantage that they enjoy in having the familiar territory of the whore house as a base, and – assuming that fortune smiles on us – it will also disrupt much of their security equipment." Aya turned the laptop around as far as the tight quarters would allow, and tapped the screen to draw attention to it. A map of city streets crisscrossed by colored lines meant nothing to the Hunter seated on the floor, so Ken waited patiently for his partner to elaborate. A humorless smile turned Aya's face into an alien mask in the wash of blue light. "There's a transformer on a pole in the alley, right here. Disable it, and several square blocks will be without power for hours until it can be replaced."

"They'll know it was us, though." the brunet Hunter protested.

Aya nodded approvingly, obscurely pleased by the fact. "And so what if they do? I said 'diversions,' plural. We need to find that woman, Honey, and send her in. They will still be unsure as to her role in recent events. If she claims to be there looking for something relating to her cousins, or to their business, the enemy will waste their energy focusing on her, and her motives. And that's where you come in. You'll be our third diversion."

"Huh?" Sighing, Ken forestalled any further explanations by holding up his hands. He was hungry, dead tired, and in no mood for mental gymnastics. "On second thought, skip that. I'm sure that you'll get around to explaining _that_ sooner or later. But what about you?"

"I represent the wild card. They know that I was already severely injured when Weiss took me from the hospital. It would be reasonable for them to consider me to have been neutralized, since, with luck, no one on their side has seen me since." The long fingers came to rest on the computer's keyboard. Aya went on, voice low and deadly serious. "Our opponents have to have figured out that the real threat is just the four of us. Kritiker is simply a support network. I believe that they have concluded that we are neither military, nor police, if for no other reason than that dead bodies have been getting cleaned up without media attention, and without and leaks through the police headquarters. Also, they have traced the money for the safe houses to accounts that are not controlled by the government. Kriitiker supplied the guards at the first mansion, vehicles, and so forth, but their role has been entirely passive… reactive. If they kill us, there is a good chance that they won't feel a need to pursue Kritiker any farther."

"Oh, that's just great!" Ken snapped bitterly. "If the big-shots at Kritiker think like you do, we're dead meat."

"They have no choice!" shot back Aya. The red head's cool mask slipped, real anger twisting his features into a harsh scowl. "We may be an elite team – especially given how reduced the organization is following the beating that it took at the hands of Takatori, and Esset – but we are not the only one. If Kritiker didn't pull back, they would be putting all of their other operations in jeopardy, as well. I don't like being hung out to dry any more than you do, but would you want the lives of every agent, every analyst, every secretary and office worker, to be riding on your shoulders? I do not." He took a deep, shuddering breath, and controlled himself with an effort, before adding in a quieter tone, "There are those within Kritiker who are innocent, too, Ken. I don't want their blood on my conscience."

Bewildered, the brunet slumped back against the uncomfortable shelves. He really had no idea what to do when Aya got like that. One part of him wanted to offer comfort, while another was certain that it would be rebuffed and didn't want to take the chance of being rejected. To his surprise, some of the same uncertainty was mirrored on the elegant features opposite as the other man hesitantly cleared his throat. "I know you don't want to hear this, but we should go back to Villa Weiss and regroup. We need to rest. Or we won't be of any use to them at all."

No need to ask which 'them' he was referring to. Ken rolled his head from side to side, feeling the pop and grind of his stiff neck. He _hated_ the idea of just driving away, and leaving his two companions behind, but there was good sense to it. It wasn't as if there was enough time left to do anything effective tonight, any way. Pretty soon it would be dawn, and no one would notice one more shabby old van on the road. They could go home, to the silent, empty house in the mountains, and get some rest. Then, they could come back and kick some serious butt. Nodding, Ken rose to his knees and stretched awkwardly. "Okay. Sounds like a plan to me."

Startled, a faint smile flitted across the other man's features. "What? No arguments?" The intimate warmth in the low voice sent a different kind of shiver down the ex-soccer player's spine, and drew an answering grin to his lips.

Aya was back to teasing? Maybe there was a God in heaven, after all.

When the van came to a shuddering, jolting stop, Ken floundered awake and peered blearily out the dirty windshield. A familiar log wall finally clicked and he groaned; dammit, they were already back at the Villa, and he had again slept through his turn at driving. But before he could open his mouth to apologize, the driver's side door had slammed and his partner was walking slowly up the plank steps to the kitchen door. Ken hastily scrambled out and ran after Aya.

The exhausted red head leaned against the wall, half-lidded eyes dark against skin that was bruised to nearly the same shade of purple. A fresh twinge of guilt bit at the younger man, but as he opened his mouth to say that he was sorry, an explosive sneeze drowned out the words. Instead, as he wiped his nose on the hem of his grubby tee-shirt, Ken muttered, "…elite team of assassins, my ass."

Aya's eyes had drifted shut, but his pale lips quirked up into a small smile. "We can always hope that they laugh themselves to death." he offered.

"Yeah, right." The shorter brunet fumbled the back door open, disabled Omi's alarms, and propelled the swordsman through first. Once the door slammed and security system was reset, he sighed. "Food. Shower. Bed. Come on."

Aya straightened his slender frame and nodded. "Why don't you go wash up? I can make miso… and Omi probably left onigiri or some other left-overs that will be edible cold."

For all of five seconds, Ken entertained the thought of asking Aya to skip the food and join him in the shower instead, then dismissed it. His head ached, and felt like an over-fiilled helium balloon on a string. The rest of his body wasn't much better. Crap… Of all the horrible times to come down sick, this had to top the list. Maybe he could stave off the worst of it with a cocktail of vitamins and traditional remedies…? Without bothering to answer Aya, he shuffled off in the direction of the utility room, stripping off his borrowed jacket and grungy shirt as he went. Normally, the idea of being half-naked in front of the other Hunter would have bothered him, but right then even being _totally_ naked wouldn't have done much.

A rap on the bathroom door what seemed like a minute later roused Ken from his stupor. He shut off the steaming water and finger-combed his dripping hair out of his face.

The knock came again, sharp and emphatic.

"Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, I'm moving." Ken shouted, finally coming fully awake. Irritably, he grabbed a towel and slung it around his hips, half in a mood to tell a certain handsome red head where to stuff his impatient, hard-nosed, rigid… He wrenched the door open, but there was no one there.

Ken shut his mouth with a snap.

In contrast to the miserable overcast of the night before, sunlight streamed down the long second floor hall, slanting in windows and skylights, spilling out from the open bedroom doors. Unfortunately, the former ball player was in no shape to appreciate it; the bright, mid-morning light made his eyes water and only served to remind him that it felt like it had been days since he'd had a decent night's sleep. He stifled another sneeze that felt as if it were going to blow his brains out through his ears, and stomped in the direction of his room.

The varnished floor felt cool under his feet, then radiantly warm as the grumpy brunet stepped into a patch of sunlight. In spite of himself, a small satisfied moan slipped out; the heated wood just felt so _good_ to his cold, bare toes that he had to stop and wriggle them for a minute, enjoying the flush of color it brought to his skin. Maybe, he ought to skip food and clothes, and just make like one of Momoe-san's cats and bask in the light? Nah, probably not. The memory of the demanding knock on the bathroom door drew his lips down into a scowl and he headed for his dresser.

There was a tray loaded with covered dishes sitting on top?

Bemused, Ken blinked. No, there definitely was an old, red and black lacquer-ware tray sitting on top of his dresser. With some trepidation, he lifted the plate that had been pressed into service as a lid for the biggest bowl, and steam wafted out. Red miso, loaded with tofu and with tiny rings of green onion floating on top, filled the container nearly to the brim. A smaller bowl held fresh, hot rice, and another was reserved for some kind of thick stew. A mug of tea rounded out the selection.

His bad mood shriveled up, and Ken felt about two inches high. He hitched the towel a bit higher around his waist and headed for the corridor, just in time to see the bathroom door snick shut. Slowly, the younger man turned back.

It wasn't as if Aya never did things for other people. It had taken his teammates a while to catch on, but the taciturn red head could be as generous as he was secretive.

But only on his terms. Only when _he_ wanted to. The damned man really was a cat like his namesake.

Ken absently picked up the bowl of soup and gulped it down, ignoring how it stung his sore throat, just as he paid no attention to how nice it felt to put something warm in his empty belly. The stew followed, just spicy enough to give his tongue a pleasant buzz, but Ken hardly noticed. His thoughts were too busy revolving around the muddled emotions that a certain red head elicited.

The problem was, Ken didn't know what to make of Aya any more. On some levels, his absence had changed nothing – the cold, analytical mind was still one hundred percent Abyssinian's – but on others, it was as if a completely new and different person had joined the White Hunters. Or, maybe it was just that the too narrowly focused athletle was finally seeing what had been there all along. Maybe… Ken was the one who had changed?

Setting the bowl aside, he let his towel drop to the floor and stepped up to the mirror mounted on his closet door, seeing only the raised, shiny pink welts or the puckered white lines of scars, not the ripple of dense muscle. Ken reached out, brushing his fingertips over the reflection of a particularly nasty one that ran vertically just below his belly button. He barely remembered the sensation of the switchblade sinking into his flesh, but the image of Abyssinian darting toward him, sword piercing the Dark Beast from behind was clear as glass. The scarlet point of the katana protruding from the man's abdomen had very nearly followed the knife blade home into Ken's gut; it would have been ironic to have died by accident, by his teammate's hand.

Ken's hand dropped to his side.

It might have been better if he had died.

He hadn't been able to stop the Beasts from taking Omi away.

Weakly he pounded both closed fists against the mirror, then leaned his forehead against the cool surface, silent tears overflowing from wide, blind eyes. How could he have just _sat_ there in the bar, while those two goons walked out with his best friend…? A treacherous part of his subconscious whispered, _Remember Kase. **He ** was your first best friend; didn't messing things up with him teach you not to mix friendship and love?_

Yeah, he'd fucked that up royally; too stupid to see the resentment building under the surface of adoration. _But Omi's not like that!_ he argued back, and that inner devil's voice fell silent – neither defeated nor repentant, but only too willing to let self-doubt fight its battles for it. A harsh sob tore itself from Ken's throat.

Arms, cool and damp from showering, circled him from behind. The distraught brunet made a futile attempt to resist as he was pulled back from the hard, chilly glass against a body that was nearly as hard, but that radiated warmth beneath smooth skin beaded by cool droplets. Flannel brushed the backs of Ken's bare thighs as his captor shifted, effortlessly balancing both their weights. Shivering with the strain, Ken clamped his lips closed, holding in the urge roar out his revulsion, and to smash the traitorous mirror with the image it showed him of a young man who didn't deserve caring or comfort. Over his shoulder, beautiful, pale features, made unfamiliar by the mirror's reversal settled into a thoughtful frown.

Aya.

Ken's body vibrated with tension, torn between conflicting desire to jab/pivot/punch his way free, and the need to crumple to the bare floor and curl himself up tight. Words, low and urgent by their tone, but without any decipherable meaning, flooded the shorter man's ears. The shaking was approaching the level of a seizure when sharp pain at the side of Ken's neck short-circuited everything.

"…Ken… Ken…"

"My… name…?" he whispered, dazed. The soft repetitions were like a spell, a magical binding to bring his soul back to earth.

"Ken, hold on for a little longer…" Fervent, and strong… like the hand, seen ghostly white in the mirror but made of solid, mortal flesh that stroked down the younger Hunter's abdomen. When the splayed fingers occluded the ugly, raised line of the scar below his navel, a tremor of a different kind rocked him.

Even with the incongruity of the splint supporting his broken finger, Aya's skin was so perfectly fair and pale against his own tanned flesh and the trail of dark hairs on his belly. The callused pads of each fingertip kneaded at the firm muscles, then as Aya licked where he had bitten, changed to the scrape of nails. Wet claret colored hair that was nearly black in reflection was plastered sleekly to the assassin's skull. Water dripping from the short strands caught at the sunlight, momentarily bright as diamond, before running in a silver trail down Ken's bare shoulder.

He shivered at the contrast of hot tongue and cold water.

A tingling was spreading from each point of contact: the inflexible arm locked across his chest, the hand that now traced the outer curve of his navel, the moist brush of soft lips against his throat, and the shifting play of muscles all down the length of Ken's back. The younger man whimpered softly and leaned back against that irresistible strength.

Companion. Partner. Savior?

Savior… God, Aya's breath and lips where hot against his skin, murmuring a sibilant near-prayer of 'don't give up' and 'hold on.' The tingling was growing into an inferno, consuming sense and will. But it wasn't right that the stubborn red head further run down his already dwindling reserves for Ken's sake. He half turned his head, intending to tell Aya 'Stop, I'm not worth it,' but ended up intersecting with that persistent, insistent mouth. Startled, Ken froze.

If the impromptu kiss surprised the swordsman, he hid it well. Pliant lips traversed Ken's, leisurely but thorough. The tip of a tongue teased briefly, savoring the lingering salt of miso and tears until the stunned brunet felt his own lips part involuntarily to invite the skillful invader in, even as a ragged moan escaped. If this was the sort of talents that Crashers cultivated, maybe he ought to consider switching teams.

Teams.

Oh, Christ… his team. Breathing hard, Ken flinched back, breaking that distracting contact. Drowning in defeat and grief, he'd let one very real fact slip away: Omi and Yohji weren't _dead_. At least, not yet. One or both of them was waiting at the club in Tanagawa, waited for their teammates to come bring them home. He had no right to be screwing around with Aya when the others were in God knew what kind of trouble. His awkward stiffness communicated his thoughts more clearly than words, and the deceptively strong arm that held Ken fast tightened, refusing to let him pull the rest of the way away.

"Stop. You're not doing them any good, being like this." A subtext of annoyance mixed with worry under the quiet statement told Ken that he was trying Aya's patience, but he didn't really care. It wasn't unusual to have the deadly red head take over the leadership role during a fight; his ability to think through situations, and react swiftly with emotionless detachment made the swordsman a good commander when things got hairy. At times like that, any of the Weiss would trust him with their lives. But now, the last thing Ken wanted was to be manipulated and directed, whether it was for his own good, or that of his team.

Because they weren't just his teammates, dammit, they were his _friends_. He didn't give a flying fuck whether Kriticker had set them up to bond together, or not. All that mattered was that they had, and that Omi and Yohji were depending on him to come through and save their butts. Growling his frustration, the athlete twisted, intending to break himself free, even if it meant punching Aya into next week. What exactly he was going to do after that, Ken had no clear idea, but he wasn't about to stay put and –

Sharp teeth sank into the straining tendons along side the brunet's neck, and this time, they didn't let go. At a low, warning rumble that vibrated through his back and into those damned teeth, Ken instinctively froze, his body having more sense than his brain at the moment. His rapid pulse was pounding though every muscle, making his scalp burn with the beginning of a monster headache, and he was breathing in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the exertion. Somewhere, dimly, he was aware that Aya too was trembling from fatigue, and it was that bit of human weakness that finally broke Ken's desire to fight his way free. A minute sag in previously rigid muscles earned him a faint sigh and a relaxing of the bite Aya had on him. The returning blood flow brought with it a surge of pain, and the younger man whispered, "Ow… That hurts like a son of a bitch, you asshole."

Aya wearily leaned his forehead into the side of Ken's neck, and unexpectedly chuckled. It sent a twinge of guilt through the brunet. The older man had been taking one hell of a risk, relying on pain to shock his companion to his senses; had Ken slipped into a berserk rage, he probably wouldn't have felt a thing until after it was all over – until the fat lady had sung, and his assailant was lying in a pool of blood. But it also reminded him that he didn't understand. Hesitantly, Ken asked, "Aya, why are you here? Why are you looking out for me?"

The answer was oblique. "You need to get some rest."

Exasperated, warm brown eyes rolled toward the ceiling and heaven beyond. "That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is. You're so tightly strung that it will be a miracle if you sleep. How do you expect to aid Omi and Yohji like this?"

The prompt, acerbic replay made Ken snort derisively. At some point he had obviously crossed a line into an alternate dimension where the irascible swordsman actually deigned to respond when spoken to. It was too weird. But even so, Aya _did_ have point; Ken was light-headed with fatigue, but there was no way that he was going to be able to sleep. Not with his treacherous subconscious lying in wait to show him pictures of his friends, maimed… or worse. The athlete shivered; the tendency to think with his heart, instead of his brain, was going to be the death of him, one of these days. Being reckless was fine for the middle of a pitched battle, when it could put an opponent on the defensive, but it had no place in this sort of slow, methodical operation. The problem was, he didn't see how he could just follow Aya's cold example and let it all go.

The soft sigh was repeated against the younger man's neck. "You need to be distracted." It wasn't a question, but a statement. "Look at the mirror."

Confused, Ken obeyed, and found himself trapped when his eyes met the slanted twilight darkness that stared with the unblinking intensity of a hunting cat. Seen like that, his cheek rubbing slowly against the curve of the ball player's skull, lipping at unruly, bitter chocolate brown strands while drying threads of his own caught fire in the sunlight, Aya was uncanny and fey. The swordsman looked inhumanly, achingly beautiful, and Ken felt his ability to move or to speak slip away.

"Keep watching." the hot breath on his nape commanded.

Aya was at most three or four inches taller, but with his contained bearing, it usually felt like more. Now, with the exotic purple veiled behind long lashes as he dipped his head to trace the lines of tendons and bone, down the side of Ken's neck and onto his shoulders, the difference became trivial. Gracefully oblique eyes flicked up, amethyst-bright in a reflected gleam of light that glowed on translucent porcelain skin, and turned the former soccer player's tan to gold. There was a streak of cruelty in the red head. Most often, it seemed to be self-directed, a masochistic punishment for sins real and imagined, for surviving when so much of what he had cared for had not. But now it was aimed at Ken – victim or prey, he wasn't sure which – with the same single-minded focus that he normally devoted to the blade. And like his kenjitsu katas, every move was languid, lethal perfection.

It ought to have been terrifying, not exhilarating. "Aya, no. Don't- "

A light kiss beside his jaw silenced him. Skillful hands stroked down Ken's chest, lingering over the clearly visible contours of bone and muscle as if memorizing every curve and line. Standing there, watching Aya watch him while heat like raw alcohol fillied his belly, the younger man couldn't help but wonder about Aya's prior team, about Crashers. With a guilty start, he realized that the ethereal red head standing behind him couldn't have been all that much older than Omi was now, when he had been learning to use his graceful body as a weapon, just as he wielded a sword. What had it been like, for someone who obviously hated opening up to people? And, who was it that had taught that boy to fight the Dark Beasts that way? Disturbed, Ken caught the violet eyes in the mirror's reflection, and felt Aya go still against his back. They stared at one another, enthralled by their images, until the slender assassin put his mouth to Ken's ear, and whispered, "Stop thinking."

It was hard to tell if it was the command itself, or the puff of moist, warm breath that was responsible, but Ken felt his brain stutter and his mouth go dry. If Aya didn't want him obsessing, or second guessing, he had certainly picked an effective way to achieve his ends.

But he _ought_ to be bothered by it. Was Aya doing this because he wanted to, or because he was canny enough to recognize a sure-fire way to get the hot-tempered athlete off of his back? At that thought, Ken made an abortive attempt to step out of the taller man's embrace, only to discover that – weary, or not – there was a lot of strength in the wiry arms. He knew that Aya was far more than a pretty package, that there was an inflexible will and a good measure of physical prowess, too, packed into a slim body that looked more like a dancer's than a fighter's. But sometimes it was still a surprise.

"A- Aya, stop. Y- you don't- " Ken repeated, sputtering. Desperate, he captured the pale hand that dipped below his waist, immobilizing the nimble fingers before they could reach the erection that the younger man found that he had absolutely no control over. Mortified, he stared at that mutinous flesh, violet and dusky-rose clearly visible in the sunlight as it swelled. God, what in Hell was he doing, shamelessly flashing in front of a mirror like that? Not that embarrassment had the least effect on the hard-on jutting from dense black curls. The athlete gulped and blurted, "I- it's not like you have to do this. You don't own me, or anything."

Aya twisted his right wrist against Ken's thumb, the weak point in the imprisoning circle, and easily freed himself. When the callused fingers made a grab to recapture him, the swordsman's left intercepted, smooth muscles bunching along his forearm with the effort it took to stop Ken from interfering. Aya's low voice hissed into the brunet's ear, "I told you, I want to." as his fingers curled around Ken's cock.

The younger man whimpered, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty house. A confused jumble of impressions overwhelmed him - Aya saying the same words, 'I want to,' in the blue dimness of the stake-out van; Omi kneeling in the alley, sweet determination sealing his innocent mouth around his best friend's erection; and now, feeling the red head hot and hard at attention against Ken's backside – his control broke. Semen, glistening white, splattered across his reflection.

Somehow, he didn't have a clue how, Ken found himself flopping onto the yielding surface of his bed, too dazed to protest when strong hands pushed and pulled at him to get him off the top of his covers and underneath them instead. There was a moment's pause, and then he was nudged firmly over onto his side, and out of the middle of the mattress. The bed dipped, and brunet managed a stupid grin when a warm presence settled along his back.

Eyes closed, the grin lingered as the Ken sank into dreamless slumber.


	17. Chapter 17: Heat

**_Reflections: Heat  
_**_Chapter 17_

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.  
__Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought. _

_**

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Author's Notes: **I have survived my back-to-back trips. It is unfair of work to cram a year's worth of travel into just a couple of weeks. The second (and now **third-**!) draft of chapter 17 was written in a hotel room in D.C. while I was attending a conference. Since I was internet-less – and so also beta-deprived - any errors or inconsistencies are entirely my doing._

_For anyone who's interested, chapter six of the Full Metal Alchemist fic, **Rain** is mostly done, but I plead insufficient coherency at this point to be able to tell if I've dotted my i's and crossed my t's. For some reason, **Reflections** seems to have gobbled up my capacity for tracking continuity issues. (Gee, I wonder how that could have happened…?)_

_And, lastly, please remember that this is an R-rated fic for a reason. While I don't believe in excesses of sex, gore or violence for their own sake, if it's part of the plot, I write it. The question then becomes **why** do things happen as they do? I hope you'll have some fun figuring out the clues. _

_L.A. Mason (aka LibraryCat)_

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Guilt. The thing that the brunet's slow wits hadn't been able to remember in his post-sex haze of bliss was pure and simple _guilt_, and it dragged him back to wakefulness within what seemed like minutes. It was _so_ ironic that in temporarily forgetting, he doubled and even tripled the feeling of gut-wrenching, soul-blackening, utter _worthlessness_ that went with letting down his partners. Okay, perhaps it wasn't his fault that the other two had gotten taken prisoner; he could accept that circumstances the night before had not been suitable for dumb heroics; but that didn't excuse him from sleeping when they needed him. Or for leaving the two blonds in the clutches of God-knew-what evil-hearted kidnappers, suffering unspeakable horrors while he screwed his miserable brain out. Ken groaned, and resisted the temptation to dig his fingers into his scalp and rip his own skull open; he didn't deserve the release that suicide would afford him. Death was too good for a looser like him. 

Blearily, he dragged himself upright, too limp and sated from after months of celibacy to do more that sit on the edge of the rumpled bed and stare blindly at the gleaming plank floor, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees and his empty hands dangling between his thighs.

God, but he was pathetic.

The bedding at his back rustled. "What's the matter?" The demand shifted from groggy to lucid in the space of three words - Aya living up to his inhuman reputation, once again – and frustrated by it, Ken swore at him.

The measure of contained impatience radiating from the bed got clamped down on – hard – and Ken could almost feel the gears turning as his partner considered and discarded a range of scenarios. Decision made, the red haired assassin neither stalked out the door in a snit, nor went up in a puff of smoke. Rather, he settled behind the compact athlete, one leg to either side, and allowed his cheek to rest against Ken's shoulder blade. That was cruel; the fates weren't even going to allow Ken to brood in peace. Half-heartedly, the younger man growled, but failed to make an impression on the quiet figure leaning against his back. Imperturbably, Aya remarked, "You're being an asshole."

"Say what?" Stung, the ex-soccer player tried to turn around, but found that steel fingers manacled his wrists.

"Take a look at the clock, and then you tell me." Amusement laced with irritation, and beneath that, Ken could have sworn that there was a faint degree of worry.

So Ken looked, and blinked. Flooded by sunlight, the alarm clock on his desk said that it was barely 12:30 in the afternoon. Meaning that it had only been three hours since they'd gotten to Villa Weiss? A little less, since he'd fallen asleep with Aya after… whatever that had been? And why did thinking of the handsome assassin and sex at the same time leave him feeling flustered, confused and disjointed, like smoking pot, or reading too much Lewis Carroll? He must have muttered the last thought out loud, because the redhead made an odd, choked noise, like a cat trying to be discrete about hawking up a hairball… or honest laughter. Which thought just went a long way toward proving that Ken was hallucinating.

Aya didn't do noises like that.

"Come back to bed." Whatever was going through his head, Aya still managed to deliver the command in something approaching his normal, brusque tone.

"No." The brunet squirmed, trying to wriggle free, before giving up with a rude gesture over his shoulder at his captor. Right at the moment, he was stronger than the other assassin, but he didn't want to hurt him, either. Plus, Aya was cannier; enough so as to make good use of the advantages of leverage and the other Hunter's indecision to choose his battlefield. At the moment, that amounted to flipping them around, ending with Ken sprawled across the bed, with Aya's arm locked around his throat, and a leg similarly locked around Ken's shin. Given that the shorter athlete hadn't gotten around to putting clothes after the first time, it meant that he was stretched out stark naked and vulnerable.

So, of course he blushed. Embarrassed, Ken stared at the patch of blue sky visible through the skylight above, and tried to pretend that his arm and bare side weren't pinned by his companion's equally bare chest. His voice shook with the effort to sound nonchalant as he said, "So… care to let go of me?"

A hum that felt suspiciously like a muted chuckle vibrated down alongside Ken's ribs. Aya coughed politely, replying, "No. I don't think I would. I like the view just as it is."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Judging by the way the air felt suddenly cooler, the tide of red must have passed from his cheeks, down his neck, and onto his chest by now. Why was it that all the guys in Weiss seemed to get a kick out of that sort of teasing? Omi, Ken was used to. Hell, he teased the boyish hacker right back. And he could almost get his brain wrapped around the idea of Yohji tickling him, and sitting on him. But having the aloofly elegant swordsman refusing to let him up was a bit much. Forget the laughing part, Aya just didn't _do_ shit like that.

Half convinced that the red head really _was_ some kind of a changeling, Ken forgot his fascination with the sky outside, and turned his head to glare, but with their noses nearly touching, it sort of lost its impact. In fact, he found himself being distracted by the high planes of Aya's cheekbones, and the faint dusting of pink over the translucent white of his skin. With the lids of his remarkable eyes lowered to half-mast, the slanted cat's gaze gave him an exotic, foreign aspect, rather than other-worldly, more like an elite lady of the floating world than an accomplished assassin - or a demon. But Aya could be demonic, as witnessed by his infamous temper tantrums whenever he ran into the Takatori.

And, apparently, he _did_ have it in him to tease, as his free hand traced a leisurely path along pectorals and abdominals. Each ridge and hollow was defined as his younger partner strained to avoid the languid caresses, while a blush the color and temperature of a house on fire followed every touch. But unlike Yohji or Omi's efforts, Aya's was in deadly earnest. The pitiless violet eyes narrowed, becoming calculating, and Ken's heart skipped a beat; there were reasons – good ones – as to _why_ someone high-class like Fujimiya was Weiss. It didn't do to forget them, or to underestimate him.

Even if he _had_ sworn off doing that sort of stuff ever again.

"It seems that I didn't do a very good job of distracting you, earlier." The statement's deadpan delivery shocked the shorter brunet, and for a long minute, Ken forgot to breathe. Then a slow exhalation stirred the strands of dark hair falling across anxious brown eyes, and Ken's toes curled involuntarily as a tremor slid right down his spine. _Oh, Jesus in Heaven… Aya…_ and Ken's brain shut down, locking out any hope of thinking through what had happened between them, even as a pleasant tightening around his balls told him that his body remembered _very_ well what it felt like to come at Aya's bidding. And that it wanted to do it again. Soon.

"I'll have to remedy that." A low whisper above Ken's ear let him know that the increased pace of his breathing, and the shiver of tension had registered on his bed mate. Panicked, the brunet froze; Aya was going to fetch that wicked, razor sharp katana to cut off the offending bits of Ken's anatomy. The idea was so overwhelming that when the heavy weight of the hand that had been lying quiescent on the younger man's belly began to move, Ken jerked, and when the fingers lazily combed through the tight curls on their way south, he choked off a piteous whimper.

Possibly that was why it took a good minute for Aya's quiet laugh to penetrate, and when it finally did, Ken felt a slow burn of anger laid over top of the mortification. _What the fuck-!_ The red haired prick had a lot of nerve _laughing_ at him when— He opened his mouth to say something stupid about it, but lost the thought when a slow, sensual rub of thin cotton flannel traveled up Ken from knee to thigh.

The worn fabric did absolutely nothing to camouflage the ripple of muscles in the leg that wrapped around the soccer player's like a python, or to hide the deliberate pressure of Aya's hard-on against the younger Weiss' hip. "Since I didn't do a very good job," the quiet monotone repeated, and Ken tensed for a different reason as Aya softly added another, deliberate statement, "It seems we have some unfinished business."

_Oh, my God._ Was Aya actually _propositioning_ him?

No. Ken couldn't. Okay, yes, it was one thing to take a short break and regroup; the chagrined Hunter could see now that his behavior had been getting seriously off-balance, and that the loss of rationality represented a threat to their goals, but Omi and Yohji were waiting. It was wrong to let himself get distracted.

But then the callused pads of two long fingers were pressing intimately as the imprisoning leg rode up over top of Aya's own wrist, wringing a frantic gasp from the wiry brunet, even as his libido crowed _Hell, yes!_ and did a little victory dance, drop-kicking the guilty thoughts about how wrong it was to enjoy his own little slice of Heaven when God only knew what might be happening to the other two members of Weiss. Before Ken knew what was happening, Aya was shifting onto his back, and that leg that held so tightly was guiding the shorter Hunter up on top of his partner. It positioned him so that his own erection was being stroked by the teasing touch of fragile cotton and the occasional electric shock of aroused flesh striking flesh, while the hand trapped between their bodies did obscenely wonderful things. Ken wasn't sure exactly what Aya was doing, but it couldn't be legal, not and feel so unbelievably good. When the fingers massaged their way around his opening, his teeth clamped down onto his lower lip until a bitter salt and iron taste told the shaking athlete that he'd broken through the skin, to the blood within. Aya murmured something that Ken couldn't understand, then licked carefully at the seeping bruise until the younger man relented, opening his mouth.

The hesitant permission was obviously all that the red haired assassin had been waiting for, a signal for him to brace himself against the bed and lift, giving those elegant fingers a chance to wrap around both their cocks together, and squeeze. The sharp/sweet sensation jolted Ken's eyes open wide: _Christ, that's **incredible**… _Hot velvet over steel, and every other corny, romance novel cliché, and a few that the hack writers couldn't even conceive of – like the taste of the color scarlet, or the scent of a solar eclipse – hot and intense and too immediate to endure.

He was still swearing, raggedly and in a high, unnatural whisper when his stuttering heartbeat had slowed down enough that the spots and shadows receded from his vision. Aya was silently panting, sweat running in tiny rivulets down his ribs and leaving darker patches on the pillow and sheets as it dripped from his ear-lobes and short strands of nearly burgundy hair.

Lying stretched between Aya's thighs, resting his weight on a ridged belly and smooth chest was odd, but nice. Every measured inhalation from that body beneath his was like riding a boat across slow ocean swells, arousing and soothing at the same time. And distracting too, but in a good way, as the sensitive skin of Ken's reviving erection brushed lightly against the cotton of the red head's pajama bottoms. Anticipation tightened first his abs, then spread in a warming tingle to other muscles, deeper inside. When Aya's eyes opened lazily half-way to meet the younger man's gaze, the pleasant anticipatory buzz became a hard throb of want, and Ken rocked forward, thrusting against the barrier of soft fabric.

He couldn't let go of the hold, mutually binding, that those twilight gray eyes had on him. The way Aya's pupils dilated, inky night swallowing the shadow-flecked rim of color, made his heart beat a tiny bit faster, a little bit harder… Half concealed behind the fragile, violet tinted skin of their lids and filtered past the delicate bars of long lashes, the steady gaze challenged. Maybe it was a subtle change in the rhythm of the slow movements, or the whisper of thin cotton against the back of his calf, as one of the redhead's long legs slowly stroked past his, but Ken had no doubt that he was wanted. No matter how much he wanted to be where he was, Aya felt the same, in return.

Heart thumping from the exertion, Ken sagged into the resilient hardness beneath him, savoring the way their bodies meshed, breath matching breath. A sense of rightness stole over him, soothing away the burden of failure that weighed him down whenever he thought of not being there for Omi – or for Yohji – and with it came a surge of intense tenderness. He kissed the corner of his partner's mouth, barely brushing the smooth skin, then more hungrily each of his eyelids and over into the cool silk of close-cropped hair at his temples. A shiver ran through the body pinned beneath the ball player, together with a delicate thrust of the hips that unexpectedly made Ken choke. In a subtle hint, Aya was reminding him that _he_ hadn't found his release, that he was still waiting for Ken to follow up on the permission that had been granted to explore and satisfy the both of them. The brunet gasped out a short laugh when slim, persistent hands stroked down his flanks and ended by cupping his buttocks, drawing the smaller man up and positioning him.

Of course, Aya couldn't just _ask_ that he move. No-o-o… It required finesse and persuasion. Not that Ken objected to being persuaded. The light, grazing touch of the splint's cool metal contrasted with the sudden heat of the redhead's clever fingers, and in that moment, Ken would have rolled over on his back like a dog wanting his belly scratched – anything – just so long as the gentle pressing and stroking didn't stop. Dimly, he was aware that Aya was using the same acupressure points that Ken had employed during their abortive massage/seduction session, and doing it with unexpected skill. His shoulder blade rotated, landing his abruptly limp weight fully on top of his companion, and the brunet felt a twinge of apprehension: what if he was too heavy for the still-healing man? But before he could pull away, planting his elbows to take up the load, the silent Hunter was kissing Ken with bruising force, even as he shifted muscular legs just that tiny bit to again allow his shorter partner to settle completely between them.

Ken stopped breathing, stunned by the sticky hotness of semen-soaked flannel. It ought to have been disgusting, but heated by their bodies, the wet caress was unbelievably erotic. It said, _You've been here before… now, this time, finish the job. Go all the way…_ and he rocked eagerly, shaking with the force of his desire to be obedient. Stupid with desire, and overcome by the weird sense of tenderness, he choked out, "God, Aya… So long as I've got you, I know I'm gonna be okay."

And, judging by the flinch, and recoil under him, it was the worst possible thing he could have said.

Wide-eyed terror froze Aya as comprehension swept over him. Something hard to define was happening inside the swordsman's convoluted brain, and whatever it was, it was enough to send him gracelessly scrambling out of the bed, nearly dumping Ken on the floor in the process. Ghostly white, Aya's mouth opened, but nothing came out; he simply stared with drowning eyes until the confused athlete struggled into a sitting position, and then he fled. Down the hall, Ken heard the emphatic slam of the redhead's bedroom door.

For a long moment, there was nothing that he could do but sit with his jaw dropping in mute astonishment, until finally, "Jesus. Fuckin.' Christ." Ken muttered angrily as he flopped onto his back. Well, obviously, something he'd said had been the wrong thing. And trust Aya to over-react and storm off, rather than just giving him a swift kick. Of all the times to pick to flip out, to remind Ken that Aya had been traumatized and mentally wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders, this had to be the worst.

The inescapable conclusion was that Ken was going to have to figure out what he'd done, and fix it. Again.

* * *

The combination of sex and the emotional tsunami had left Ken with a kind of exhausted calm that probably wasn't really that bad of an idea, given what they would have to do that coming night, if they were to rescue their teammates. In fact, he thought wryly, anything that would make it possible for him to partner with Aya without the stern redhead wringing his neck or running him through with that length of gleaming steel was all for the better… Or sending the man running for cover. 

Troubled, the younger man flopped onto the tangled mess of his bed and frowned at the fluffy clouds flitting across the rectangle of his skylight. Just as the boundaries of the window frame cut off all but a tiny slice of sky, leaving him to guess at what was happening beyond that limited field of view, his interactions with Aya only let him glimpse a small part of what was going on inside. Too used to keeping his own secrets, hardly anything escaped from the taciturn Hunter. It reminded Ken of a TV program he'd watched about black holes, and how even light couldn't pass beyond the event horizon created by the sucking gravity well.

Aya was like that, too. Except in his case it was vulnerability and openness that got cut off sharp… Maybe, once Omi and Yohji were safely home, the thing to do would be to ask Aya to join him on a road trip? Ken always did his best thinking when the dashed lines of the open freeways were racing past the tires of his bike, mostly because it was one of the few times when he wasn't thinking at all.

Whatever. Sighing, he rolled off the bed; it was going to have to wait until later.

He padded down the open staircase, automatically avoiding the treads that squeaked even under bare feet, and swung around the corner into the kitchen. Seated at the table, Aya's familiar head of dark claret hair nodded silently toward the stove and the big pot simmering on it, without even bothering to turn around to see if the presence at the door was friend or foe. Ken shook his head, muttering, "Hi, yourself."

Without pausing the rapid scrolling of Manx's laptop, the other assassin replied dryly, "It's been less than half an hour since I left your bed. Don't expect a big fuss."

Unseen, Ken shook his head. Obviously his guess had been right; whatever had upset Aya had gotten sucked into that black hole, and was _not_ going to be spoken of. Body-language-wise, the older Hunter was practically screaming _Mention what happened, and you will die. Painfully. _Annoyed, the brunet huffed, but resisted the temptation to make a smart-ass remark about just who was making the fuss. Instead, he ladled noodles and broth into a deep bowl and sat down across the table's corner from his companion.

Veiled by long lashes a shade darker than that astonishing hair, Aya's violet eyes flickered quickly across the display as his fingertip tapped on the touch pad, opening and closing windows. Growing increasingly curious, Ken finally scooted his chair over to where he could see. "What are you looking for?"

In response, Aya brought up a screen that had been minimized and turned the small computer a little so that the brunet could more easily see. "The small electrical sub-station that was my first choice for cutting power to the neighborhood is inaccessible. Now I'm looking for a list of pole transformer locations, and what blocks each serves."

"Okay…" Ken pulled the laptop a little closer, studying the columns of data. There were lists of numbers, presumably corresponding to poles lining the streets and alleys of Tanagawa, but with so few of them matched to actual street names, he could see why it was a problem. It would be next to impossible for a stranger to the electrical utility's database to guess which one served the Hot Body. "Uh, so why is the substation out?"

Aya swung the laptop back around, a faint crease between his brows suggesting that he considered it personally responsible for the set-back. Absently, he answered, "Most substations are simple, fenced enclosures, with the larger transformers sitting out on a concrete pad, and glass fuses and high tension cables feeding in from above. In this instance, however, the only approach is through a small monitoring facility." A rapid swoop of the mouse and a click opened a document that gave brief specs for the station.

"Does the place have windows?" Noodles forgotten, Ken skimmed the text, scooting his chair closer to Aya's, craning his neck for a better view.

"None except on the main street. The rear of the place sets against a concrete block wall belonging to a city services garage." A small schematic of the cluster of government properties popped onto the screen. "The front entrance is also not acceptable. While there are no staff on the premises at night, there is too much street traffic to allow a B and E. Therefore, we will have to find a way to disable several of the pole transformers."

"Wait, wait… There's nobody at the garage at night, either, right? So, we could punch through the wall without anyone noticing."

"_If_ we had the means." There was an acid undercurrent of exasperation that made Ken want to flatten his ears and slink away like a threatened dog. If Aya noticed, he gave no indication, continuing in his precise voice, "The wall is too substantial. We have no explosives, neither in the van Manx gave us, nor here at Villa Weiss. It's too risky to try to pick any up in the city since we cannot use our Kritiker connections."

"Hold on – I'll be right back." Affronted, the handsome redhead reared back when the athlete snapped his fingers right under his nose and bolted out of his chair. Ken had to fight back a snicker; seeing Aya baffled, with the elegant lines of his entire body radiating confusion and displeasure, was a rarity. But worth it, just like it would be when he saw what the younger assassin had.

The stuff that had come out of his pants pockets when they had arrived at the cabin was in the top drawer of his dresser, right where he remembered dumping it. And in the middle of the jumble was the handful of loot that he had pilfered from one of the dead assailants back at the mansion, including four ready-to-use explosive charges. It struck him as oddly appropriate – in an ironic sort of way – that they were going to be used in an assault against their original owners.

Aya hadn't moved by the time Ken galloped back down the stairs two at a time. But his expression _was_ priceless when the smug brunet carefully laid the small bombs out in a row on the worn kitchen table. The smoky purple eyes widened impossibly, then narrowed in consideration. He made no move to touch the rectangular blocks with their neatly taped-up wires and digital counters, tilting his head to one side and staring intently for a long moment, until he stated, "Omi didn't build these. You took them off of the people who attacked us."

Ken nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I did. The design is pretty straight-forward. They're not Omi's but I figure I can use 'em okay." A tiny, evil smile quirked his partner's mouth, and Aya chuckled darkly.

"Perfect. Four should be sufficient."

A happy grin stretched the athlete's face, but he shrugged silently and picked up his neglected bowl of noodles. He had no idea _what_ four was enough for, but he figured he'd find out soon in due time. If anything, Ken trusted the older Weiss. Aya was a superior tactician, and more importantly, he'd _said_ that he would help Ken get the missing pair back. And that was good enough.

"Call Honey." A cell phone dropped onto the table. Ken hiked an eyebrow questioningly and was rewarded with a terse explanation. "This is her phone. Apparently she lives in an apartment with another employee of the whorehouse. The number is on the speed dial list under 'home.' "

"Oh." Ken laid his chopsticks on the tabletop and picked up the cell. "So what do I say to her?"

"Pick a place close to the Hot Body and have her meet us there at eight. Use money or threats, whatever it takes, but get her there." Impatient, Aya tossed the reply over his shoulder as he rose, intent on the house's back door and the white van parked in the shelter of the generator shed.

Self-restraint had never been Ken's strong suit, either; opening his mouth and sticking his foot in, on the other hand, was something he could count on. The words were out before he had a chance to so much as groan over the poor timing: "Wait, Aya! About earlier. What did I do that upset you so much?"

Ouch. The laser-intense glare that Aya raked the seated brunet with as he swiveled back to the table was furious. The redhead might as well have screamed, 'Die, Hidaka!' out loud, the way he used to lose it and rage at the sight of Takatori Reiji. But, perversely stubborn, Ken refused to cringe. Instead, he shoved back his chair and stood, clenched fists ready at his sides.

The face-off held for all of two seconds, until Aya spun about and reached for the knob of the closed door.

"Aya! What the fuck is going on inside that head of yours!" Ken yelled in desperation. If the older assassin kept walking away, so help him God, he'd flatten the man. But no, Aya paused, his back still turned resolutely toward the frantic brunet. It didn't guarantee an answer by any stretch of the imagination, but at least Ken could tell himself that there was a _chance_ that the lunatic would explain at least some of what was going on.

"That book. The one about the Choshu assassin, during the Meiji Restoration. Did you read it?" A tremor was barely perceptible in the seemingly level voice, belying its calm. Baffled, Ken shrugged.

"Nah, not all of it. Why?"

"Then don't expect me to be able to explain to you." Aya snapped. He stalked away, slamming the door behind him so that the glass rattled in its frame.

Startled, the brunet sketched a salute that involved a raised middle finger at the other man's oblivious back. But he also pressed the buttons on the phone. It was answered on the second ring, and the hooker's unmistakable, cigarette-hoarse voice came from the tiny speaker: "Damn, but you got a hell of a lot of nerve, calling me on my own phone, you know that?"

Shaking, Ken cleared his throat. "Um, hi, Honey. I've got a deal I want to discuss with you…."

* * *

"No. No, _no_, NO. I won't do it, and nothing you can say is going to make me. _You_ are out of your ever-loving _mind_ if you think I'm helping you against those people. I swear, I am _so_ regretting that I ever got mixed up in this. There is _not_ enough money in the world-" 

Ken pinched the bridge of his nose, and groaned. The woman – it was Honey, actually, despite the fact that her frizzy blond curls were covered by a sleek black wig in a pageboy cut – was backing away from him with surprising alacrity, considering that she was teetering on the highest spike heeled shoes that the assassin had ever seen. In a few more steps, she would be out of the seclusion of the alley that she had agreed to meet in, and back into the hectic neon and traffic lights of the main street. Worse, her increasingly strident voice was going to start attracting attention long before her phosphorescent-lime green mini dress did. Ken held up both hands in an attitude of supplication and tried begging. "Look, Honey-chan, you don't have to do anything other than get us inside-"

"_US!_ Oh, don't tell me that that cute kid is back with you. You're nuts getting a little boy involved in all this crap-" Her apparently aimless, wild gestures succeeded in smacking Ken's hands away every time he reached for her, and he seriously considered kicking her feet out from under her. If he took her down, and dragged her deeper in the alley, maybe he could get her to listen to reason. For all of about thirty seconds, the frustrated brunet wondered if telling her that it was the 'cute kid' that he was trying to rescue would do any good, but it seemed like a particularly bad plan, given her current attitude. With the way his luck was going, she would screech about _any_ involvement of Omi, past, present or future. How was he supposed to have known that the hooker had a maternal streak where little blonds were concerned? Although, given the weirdly incestuous nature of the family business… The Hunter shook his head to try and dislodge the bad ideas that were attempting to set up housekeeping in there.

Gathering his determination, Ken tried again, wheedling shamelessly. "Come on, Honey… All I need is some help getting inside the building. You know your way around in there, and those guys, they won't think anything of it if you turn up to get some of your stuff, right?"

"Fuck off, Achira, or whatever your name really is." she spat. Confused, Ken blinked until it hit him that 'Achira' was the fake name he'd used on his first visit to Tanagawa. He was impressed that the whore had even remembered it; it had been pretty much gone from his brain, and he'd spent _hours_ in that persona. Honey evaded Ken's last, desperate grab and spun about, ready to dash out into Shinzuku Street.

And smacked headlong into Aya, instead.

The slim man had had the advantage of knowing that she was coming, and had been able to brace himself for the impact, causing Honey to totter backwards as she bounced off of the immovable object. She steadied herself quickly, shooting a glare at the brunet behind her, and snarling, "Out of my way, asshole!" at the obstruction blocking her escape. There was no fear in the woman's face as her chin came up and a small can of pepper spray appeared in her fist.

Completely engulfed in the black hooded sweatshirt and his leather jacket, Aya was just a tall, anonymous figure, and Ken had to admire her guts. It made him feel almost guilty about coercing her into helping, but the thought that it was his friends' lives that were on the line helped to harden his heart. He shook his head sadly, then, aware that she couldn't have seen the gesture, added, "Sorry. No can do. We really do need the help." At the same moment, Aya pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, revealing the shining, dark crimson hair that it had concealed.

With a metallic _clank_, the pepper spray hit the cracked concrete, bounced, and rolled out of sight under an oozing dumpster. Shaking until her tight, vinyl mini-dress squeaked in protest, Honey backed away from Aya, hardly noticing that her retreat bumped her into Ken in turn. "N- no… Not you!" she moaned. "Don't make me do this."

In the poorly lit alleyway, the swordsman's face was a ghostly pale, blurred oval, a fact that made his low, intense voice seem more inhuman and spooky as he said firmly, "You _will_ help us." The hooker flinched and shook her head violently.

"Look, I'm really sorry you got beat up, and everything, but you don't get it. Those people are killers. You guys are seriously out of your depth, so just forget whatever stupid ideas you've got about revenge, or whatever, and go home-" Whatever else she had been about to say got lost in a thin shriek of pain as Aya slammed her into the wall. Ken jerked, half minded to intervene, but a furious growl warned him off.

A faint, silver gleam changed his mind, however, and he darted in, catching the woman's wrist and giving it a sharp twist. The switchblade that had somehow materialized out of her close-fitting clothes clattered to the pavement. Ken scooped it up, flipped the knife closed, and tucked it into a pocket of his own black cargo pants. He resisted the temptation to retort 'And so are we,' settling instead for reproving mildly, "Bad idea, that knife. And as for those guys being killers, you just let us worry about it. We have to get inside the club, and it would be a big help if you could give us a hand."

Calculation narrowed her eyes to glittering slits, and she examined Ken and Aya closely. "So…" Honey demanded thoughtfully, "Where are the other two?"

Both of the Weiss Hunters stiffened. Automatically, the brunet opened his mouth to deny everything, but his partner beat him to it, saying swiftly, "Inside. They're inside the Hot Body."

"Oh, crap." The fight went out of the whore, and she sagged a little, trapped between the dark mass that was the taller assassin, and the grimy brick wall. "How'd they get your friends? No, on second thought, don't answer that; I really don't want to know." She looked past Aya's shoulder and addressed Ken: "Okay, fine. What do you need me to do?"

"Um…" Caught off guard by the sudden capitulation, the brunet scratched the back of his neck. "Like I said before, go up to the front door, and tell 'em you came to get some of your stuff. They should recognize you. Then, when the power goes out, you let me in, and run like hell."

Honey sighed. "Fine. That's almost simple enough to work. Everybody in the neighborhood knows that they've set up house in there, so it shouldn't surprise them too much if I tell them I came to get one of the working girl's things…" She hesitated, then coughed apologetically. "I'd suggest the back door, if I was you. I was there a couple of days ago, and they still had the same old lock on it."

"What kind?" Aya demanded.

As much as she was able to while pinned, the woman shrugged, saying, "I don't know the brand – just that it's old and basic. There's a touch pad just inside the door. You can open it from the outside with a key, and then you've got ninety seconds to punch in the code before an alarm sounds. As far as I know, they haven't bothered to change the numbers, because you need a master code, or something, and my cousin Mishakawa's got it."

The two men exchanged glances over her head, and Ken nodded encouragingly. "Tell us the code?"

"Sure. It's the moron's birthday: 270369."

The quick answer left him in a quandary: if the hooker was telling the truth, there would be no need to drag her into the whole mess. But, if on the other hand, she was lying, or intended to run straight to the opposition with the news that Weiss was making its move, they were screwed. The conflict must have been evident in his posture, because it became Honey's turn to coax.

"Come on, boys. I said I'd do this. Don't go getting cold feet on me now." Her confident tone was at odds with the uncertainty in how she reacted toward the man holding her against the wall, but still, it must have satisfied Aya on some level, because he released her. Honey took a deep, relieved breath and straightened her rumpled clothes. "When are we doing this?"

"The sooner, the better." the brunet answered. He flicked a worried glance at Aya, who gave a single, emphatic nod, and Ken cleared his throat. "It's 8:30, now. We'll hit the power in an hour."

"Right. I go in by 9:00, then. Far enough ahead that they'll be bored with watching me pack, but not so much that they'll have tossed me back outside. Okay, see you at the back door, a couple minutes after 9:30."

Nodding, Ken waved her on her way. Neither he, nor the redhead spoke until the rapid clicking of her heels had disappeared into the sounds of traffic coming from the street out front. Then the younger man groaned and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "Do you really think we can trust her?" he demanded urgently. Aya paused in the act of tugging his hood up over the tell-tale scarlet of his hair, and shrugged silently. Ken had to admit that he was right; it was a little late to start worrying about that, now. All he could do was hope that Honey would stick to the game plan, hope that no one would expect them to move so early in the evening, and hope that the enemy hadn't given up and killed his friends. Because if they had, not even slaughtering the strangers in turn would be enough to make up for losing Omi and Yohji.

Oblivious to Ken's worries, Aya signaled the all clear, and they moved out. The two Hunters headed back down the alley in the opposite direction from Shinzuku Street, back into the labyrinthine tangle of dirty side streets and passages between their meeting place and where they had parked the van. As part one of mission, one of the bombs was already in place inside the electrical substation, ready to bring down service to the whole area. Getting in had gone smooth as silk: Ken had slipped inside the garage before the last government employee had left for the day, waiting patiently in a dark corner, behind a pile of no-longer necessary snow removal equipment. Blowing a hole into the next building had come down to enlarging a massive crack in the concrete block wall until a small section tumbled down, making a gap big enough for him to squirm through.

In the days before Weiss, he probably would have planted the second plastic explosive on one of the huge transformers – assuming he'd ever thought about blowing one up, that is. But now he knew that while the big, green painted cube was an obvious target, being filled with highly flammable oil it was also the worst. Instead, the soccer player had selected an array of glass and sand fuses. The resulting mess would take hours to clear away, yet in the long run, really wouldn't do any major damage. With luck, the power company crew would determine that the outage was due to equipment failure, maybe brought on by target number two.

Because while Ken had been busy at the electrical substation, Aya had disappeared with the third of their scavenged bombs, having come up with a diversionary site a few blocks farther west. With a little luck, any emergency response teams would be deflected to there, leaving the largely boarded-up neighborhood around the Hot Body free of official interference. If their opponents inside the whorehouse checked the news, or even just went outside to have a look, the column of smoke and fire from the abandoned chemical warehouse ought to keep them from suspecting an attack on their own position.

After all, local do-gooders had been complaining about how dangerous the warehouse was for _months._ Ken had enjoyed a good laugh at the idea that by setting a fire, Aya was actually doing the work of a band of guerrilla environmentalists – who would presumably get the blame for the blaze.

And, as for bomb number four, the surly man had only shaken his head and refused to let his partner in on what he was planning.

Part two of the operation involved the cameras at the brothel. One of the times they'd brazenly cruised past the shuttered building in Manx's unobtrusive, grungy van Aya had given a triumphant grunt from his seat in the back with all the equipment, and declared that the new occupants were using wireless. Which meant that he could _possibly_ hack their security.

Compared to the average salary man on the street, yes, Ken _did_ know a lot more about that sort of thing. But next to Omi and Aya, he was a poor and distant third. Sure, he understood that the kidnappers wouldn't waste the time or energy to run cables for a physically contained security system; wireless was both cheaper and easier to set up. The former soccer player also understood that the equipment was most likely shielded and its data encrypted to prevent any outside force from breaking in. What he didn't get was how Aya figured that he could circumvent those precautions. But after the bedroom fiasco, the brunet was loath to push too hard. Aya had reverted to his pre-kidnapping, stony demeanor, yet the younger man was convinced that the whole mess was seething just below the surface, ready to lash out at anyone stupid enough to lift the lid from the pressure cooker. That stupid person had been him once already, and thank you very much, he didn't feel like giving it another shot.

Not that crouching on the corrugated metal floor of the van, watching Aya work was doing a whole lot for his self-esteem, either. After parting from Honey, they'd moved the vehicle to a pre-selected spot about a half a block from the back exit of the whorehouse, which was pretty much the outer limit of wireless range, and settled in to wait. Or rather, Ken was waiting after he'd gone over the collection of weapons scrounged from Villa Weiss one last time, and his partner was still working on the borrowed laptop. Then, much to the athlete's surprise, Aya spoke up, "Those video tapes that you got from Honey - Omi already did most of the work where they're concerned. He converted everything to digital and uploaded it onto his laptop so that he could separate the cameras and concentrate on them one at a time."

Ken nodded slowly. He recalled how annoying it had been trying to watch the surveillance tapes as they cycled from vantage point to vantage point. Not to mention the embarrassment inherent in watching what amounted to low-grade porn. Yes, he understood why Omi had filtered out half of the content on the videos, and it was a relief that it worked to their advantage now. Engrossed in his typing, the redhead continued absently, "The view from the new camera nearest to the back door corresponds very closely to the corridor footage on the tapes Omi has been working with. The reason that this is important to us now is that very likely the alarms and cameras that our opponents are using have battery back-up. I won't be able to override their equipment, but it should be possible for us to fool one camera, allowing you to penetrate that much farther into the club without being seen after Honey apparently has had enough and departs."

"Oh, I get it. The alarm on the back door'll go off, and they'll see her leave after the power outage hits, but not me coming in. Good idea." Grinning, Ken made himself comfortable, using his wadded up jacket as a pillow on the hard floor. It really was a good plan, representing the kind of attention to detail that he was used to from his teammates. While Aya might not be ready for a Kritiker mission – especially one that involved murder as well as mayhem – it was very, very good to have him back in other ways. It didn't feel completely right, not having Omi around to handle the technical aspects, but at least the stand-offish swordsman was there to put together the field operation. And that was enough to pull an involuntary murmur of contentment from the brunet.

At the quiet sound, Aya glanced down, the thin line of one brow raised curiously. "You're happy?"

"Yeah, I like having you back, and doing stuff like this. It's good." Lazily, he waved at the van's racks of surveillance equipment, and by extension, the city outside. "Yohji would die laughing, 'cause it's not exactly a romantic date, or anything, but all I'm saying is that I like working with you."

"Is this that 'we're a team because we were designed to be' business, again?" The slender fingers slowed, finally halting on the keyboard, and Aya turned fully to stare down at the reclining man. Ken shrugged carelessly.

"Maybe. Sometimes, I think Yohji gets a thrill out of making things more complicated than they really are. But you can't argue with results, so yeah, I _do_ think the four of us belong together."

The pale, handsome face grew troubled, the angular eyebrows shifting from curious to an uneasy frown. Slowly, Aya began, "Ken, I-" but much to the younger man's relief, whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the steady beeping of the computer's clock. Instantly, Ken was up off of the floor, snatching up his communications headset.

"Five minutes to show time, buddy. Do a sound check for me, okay?"

"Ken, wait. Please-" Desperation tinged the low demand, and Ken's conscience gave a regretful twinge. A few hours earlier, he'd have done anything to get that reaction out of the stubborn redhead, and here he was running away when it finally happened. But first things first: Omi and Yohji were waiting.

The same thoughts had obviously crossed the older Hunter's mind, because Aya gave a short, unhappy nod, and spun his chair back to the narrow counter. Tinted by the underwater lighting inside the van, graceful, pale blue fingers flew across the laptop, scarcely hampered by the broken pinkie in its splint. As Aya checked their communications link, the brunet patted down the rest of his gear one last time, mentally counting off by touch the narrow diamonds of throwing knives at his belt, and inside the collar of his hooded sweatshirt. The thin fan-shape tucked against his belly under the hem of his shirt held a set of Omi's needles - without narcotics or poisons because Ken didn't trust his luck to not end up drugging himself. A large combat knife was sheathed at his hip, and a smaller version with a wickedly serrated blade was tucked into the top of his tightly laced boots. A flash light, wire cutters, a spool of cord, lock picks, and everything else he'd been able to find were tucked into his belt, or the cargo pockets of his pants.

And, hidden at the small of his back, where Aya couldn't see it, was Yohji's backup, a SIG-Sauer 9mm semi-automatic.

Ken had nearly put the gun back where he'd found it, when they'd been packing up to leave Villa Weiss. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to give up a weapon that might make all the difference between success and failure, between survival, and death. No matter how valid Aya's feelings might be, as a professional, Ken couldn't accept giving up the kind of advantage the 9mm represented. But that didn't mean that he was comfortable with the potential to kill from a distance, either. If he had to think out the reasons, he supposed that being a hand-to-hand combat specialist was his own way of making sure that he never took the lives that he claimed for granted, that a target's death never became too easy. The nightmares of catching his claws in bone and viscera were a part of Ken's penance for sitting in judgement on another, and having judged, for cutting short that life.

Outside the van, every single light for blocks around abruptly winked out.

Aya doused the blue overhead light, leaving only the laptop's glow to illuminate the van's interior. Neither he, nor Ken wished each other luck, unwilling to jinx the mission. Instead, the redhead silently gave a thumbs up when the van's cameras showed the street to be clear and, focused and intent, the other Hunter slipped out into the dense shadows.

* * *

Sometimes, time seemed to stretch out to infinity, becoming a royal pain in the ass for anyone who _hated_ to wait. Grumbling irritably, Ken shoved back the cuff of his sweatshirt for the five-millionth-time, and glowered at the dim luminescence of his wristwatch. 

It had been nearly ten minutes since the neighborhood had gone dark; more than enough time for Honey to have gotten to the back door. Unless, of course, she'd been caught, or had switched sides yet again to double cross them. Frustrated, he carefully pounded his closed fist against the shadowy angle in the wall where he'd taken shelter.

Maybe she'd just been delayed. All it would have taken was some goon hovering in the hallway.

The problem lay in not knowing, while precious minutes ticked away. Ken's instincts were good, and just then, his gut was telling him to abort, to withdraw and try to approach some other time. Except, they didn't have that luxury. This was a one-shot, do-or-die mission, and they had no choice but to succeed. Muttering a curse under his breath, Siberian thumbed the send button on his mic, and hissed, "Abyssinian, status?"

"Nothing." came the prompt reply in his ear. "I'm not picking up any alarms, but keep in mind that most of their system is a closed book."

_Closed book… Shit._ Ken thought unhappily. And he was outside, trying to peek in. "I'm going to have to do it on my own." he said firmly. "From here, the lock on the back door looks like a cheap, easy one. I should have no trouble beating the ninety second delay before the alarm goes off."

Aya was silent. He knew as well as his partner did that there was no point in arguing; like Ken, he was very well aware that there would be no second chances. But it still didn't mean that he had to like it. From his vantage point in the parked vehicle, he would be unable to offer much in the way of support, should trouble arise. The hum in Ken's ear told him that Aya was still there, and was probably struggling to come up with a way around going in blind, but the truth of the matter was that without Honey, they had no eyes on the other side of that blank, battered steel door. At last the curt baritone said, "I'm taking down the camera in the hallway just inside. Proceed when you're ready." Ken scanned the skyline once more in case there were watchers, and dashed silently across the street.

Unlike Yohji, he'd never claimed to be able to pick a lock blind, and so he gripped the mini mag light in his teeth while both hands were occupied with the picks. Not that it was a tough lock; if he hadn't been so busy, Ken would have snorted with contempt. Only five pins, in a cylinder that was so old and sloppy that it took virtually nothing for him to jiggle each one up out of the way… And then the knob was turning, letting him into a barely lit corridor that reeked of spoiled food and sweat.

Panic squeezed down tight on Ken's chest; he didn't see any sign of guards – but neither did he see the promised keypad. The horrified brunet spun around, ready to run, just as the door creaked shut.

Glowing faintly green, the number pad was right there, where the open door would have hidden it. Disgusted, Ken rolled his eyes and punched in the numbers Honey had provided. A tiny display promptly returned to blinking 'ready.'

With the power off, no sounds that would normally be associated with ventilation were audible. In point of fact, _nothing_ could be heard, at all. And that was more disturbing. The flashlight was switched off and slid back into a loop on his belt as Ken cautiously took a couple of steps to the side, ensuring that he wouldn't be silhouetted against the fading red light of a battery-powered emergency exit sign.

Nothing.

Granted, the Hot Body was essentially nothing more than a whorehouse; the public fiction that it was a club being completely inadequate to hide the reality of their business; and as a whorehouse, it had some soundproofing. But it was just a second-rate brothel, and there was no way that its owners would have spent _that_ much on privacy. The silence was eerie. He found himself taking a deep breath, and holding it, and had to force himself to exhale when it struck him just how stupid that that was. _Paranoid much, Kenken?_ he asked himself, and stifled a nervous snicker.

The answer was obviously that the interlopers had holed themselves up in one part of the building, playing their own version of the paranoid waiting game. Which would go a long way toward explaining why Honey hadn't been able to slip away and get the door for him, if she was stuck waiting with them. The trick was going to be figuring out how to get the drop on the targets. As the problem claimed Ken's attention, his heart settled into a steadier rhythm, and a tingle of anticipation tightened his muscles. He ran a reassuring hand over his assortment of weapons and eased deeper into the darkness.

One thing that the former soccer player had excelled at during his brief career had been spatial relationships. On the field it had guaranteed a status as Most Valuable Player, and now it meant moving confidently through a mental floor plan of the building. The rubber soles of his boots were noiseless on the ratty carpet as he slipped down the hallway, fingertips of his left hand just grazing the wall, letting him count doors as they passed by. After the third one, Ken paused alertly at a cross-corridor. The dim light at his back marked the end of the area covered by the lone camera Aya had been able to subvert. If the enemy was reliant on regular equipment, they were just as blind as the Hunter was from here on. But, if they had invested in something a little higher end, that registered body heat, he was – pun intended – toast. Ken cocked his head and listened intently.

Still nothing.

It was getting damned annoying. Well, experience and instinct said that the peep show rooms to his left were not likely to be the hideout of choice for any except the most stupid of goons. For one thing, those rooms were tiny, and for another, the coin-operated sliding panels over the plastic windows would rob any lurkers of sight lines if they were waiting in ambush. No, if he were the one calling the shots, the place to be would be the bosses' offices. On the layout that Weiss had stolen, Mishakawa and Iida had occupied a two-room suite ahead and to the right. Not only were they more spacious, but the old security system fed into a VCR and monitor set-up in one of the rooms, making it a natural place to wait and watch for incoming trouble. He took a deep, cleaning breath, and slowly let it out. Right. The offices.

It was a couple steps farther to the first door than Ken expected, setting his nerves on edge again by the time he reached it. It had a better quality door than those he'd passed earlier, and the carpet was thicker under his feet as well, ruining any hopes he had of hearing stealthy noises from within. Scowling fiercely, the brunet sank down into a crouch to one side, and reached carefully for the knob. It turned easily, allowing the door to swing inward into the darkness. Ken scuttled in, fighting the urge to fling a handful of knives just on the off chance of hitting someone; after all the someone hit could conceivably be one of his own teammates.

Hackles rising, the assassin froze barely a half dozen steps into the room. It wasn't a sound, but rather a scent that stopped him in his tracks, a fetid under-current to the cloyingly sweet, stale smell of old incense. Something – or someone – had died, and not too long ago since the smell was confined to the close air of the unventilated office. Chill dread gripped the young man's brain, squeezing off the ability to think past _Oh, God. What if it's Omi?_ just as his lungs fought to avoid drawing in any more of the poisoned air.

_Please, don't be Ommitchi. Please…_ Ken prayed. He sensed none of the little give-aways of anyone alive in there but him, and he hastily closed the gaping door as he fumbled for his flashlight.

The tiny, focused beam might as well have been a searchlight; everything jumped into stark relief, flooding his dark-adjusted eyes with too much color, too many shapes to initially make any sense of. But there was an overwhelming impression of red, red, red… Ken squeezed his eyes shut.

And opened them again almost immediately.

Which ever of the owners had originally occupied that office wouldn't be wanting to sit in his cushy leather desk chair ever again. The bloody picture untangled itself, becoming a nauseating riot of pale flesh, scarlet and lime green. Ken winced at the after-images that the wavering beam of the light left behind. The analytical part of his brain busily noted the way the still-liquid blood followed the tiny grooves of the slick vinyl, even as his consciousness tried to block out the fact that this had been a woman that he had talked to only an hour earlier. He raised a trembling hand to touch her throat, half intending to feel for a pulse, when the boneless way she slumped in the chair and the glassiness of her fixed stare sank in, and his hand dropped.

Guiltily, he whispered, "Thank you, God. For not taking Omi."

Honey couldn't have been dead for too long; even the smallest spatters of blood still showed a brighter, wetter red at their centers, rather than near black. Ken reached for his mic, and said softly, "Abyssinia? Come in."

"I read you. What have you got?" Even though Aya's professional words were a thin whisper in his ear, the miserable brunet breathed a sigh of relief. So long as his partner could keep it together like that, so could he, no matter that he wanted to cry, or to smash everything in the room to kindling.

"I found Honey in the first office. She's dead. Looks like they did a pretty thorough job on her." Ken murmured. He forced himself to pay attention to details, to focus on the sources of the gore, rather than to fixate on blood itself. "Most severe injury before death seems to be a severed finger on her right hand… but there's lots of little stuff, too. Mainly cuts, and burn marks, probably from a smoldering stick of incense. Place reeks of it."

"Hn. How long ago?" asked the level voice.

"Not long. Half an hour, tops. Everything is still fresh." The younger Hunter hesitated, then added, "Thing is, I haven't seen any sign of anyone. It's like I'm the only person in the place. It just feels… you know. Empty."

Ken listened patiently to the hum of his headset, waiting while Aya digested the report. The answer, when it came, was doubtful. "Something doesn't seem right. Be careful, Siberian."

Even though his back-up couldn't see the motion, Ken nodded. "Yeah. I'm heading for the other office." Resolutely, he turned away from the hooker's sprawled corpse, switching off the mag light's focused beam. He figured on giving himself a minute for his eyes to adjust to what little illumination there was filtering in around the plywood covering the windows – but no more than that, or he'd start imagining what lay beyond the connecting door.

_Please, God. Not Omi… _

"Okay, here I go." Ken whispered. He stepped carefully to the side, and reached for the knob.

"Wait-! Siberian, don't-" The rest of Aya's urgent words were drowned out by a roar, and a sheet of burning, white light.

**

* * *

_More Author's Notes:_ **

_Given how long it takes me to write (in part, I confess, due to me being distracted by other fics), I thought it might be appropriate to list a few of the things that had been set up in earlier chapters:_

_The explosives really were looted from the body of a dead attacker, way back during the first attempt to kill Weiss, at the mansion safe house. At the time, the discovery allowed Ken to warn Omi that the reinforced doors to the underground garage wouldn't hold, leading him to collapse the staircase up to the kitchen. But Ken still had the bombs on him when they arrived at Villa Weiss._

_Honey had a switchblade, and pulled it, the first time she met Ken, way back in chapter five. Yes, between losing the knife and the can of pepper spray here in chapter seventeen, she really did go into the enemies' lair unarmed._

_After the second meeting with Honey, when Ken and Omi learned that she had deliberately fed them incorrect information in an effort to set them up, Ken took her cell phone away from her. His intent was to prevent her from promptly calling in a warning that the game was up to the enemy. Like the explosives, however, it also ended up going back to Villa Weiss with Ken, which was how Aya got a hold of it.._

_Modern transformers (at least in the U.S.) are now filled with a synthetic oil because of environmental hazards like PCBs. I have no idea if they are anywhere near as great a fire risk as the older style, but for the sake of the story, let's assume that they are. However, burning the transformers would have attracted attention to the area around the Hot Body from the authorities, and might also have tipped off the opposition. So, yes, the chemical warehouse was what Aya had in mind when he said that fire would serve as a diversion since it wouldn't work to set the brothel itself on fire._

_More to come…_


	18. Chapter 18: Ashes, Ashes

**Reflections: Chapter 18: Ashes, Ashes**

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**

* * *

Author's Notes:** Once again, if you aren't a mature adult, go away. I'm not going to waste my breath repeating the warnings. This chapter is dedicated to Beysie, who not only planted an (evil) idea in my brain, but led me to believe that it could happen… _

* * *

White hot light sheeted from floor to ceiling, a roaring inferno. Agony raced up Ken's leg, and he beat at it until the leather of his gloves smoldered. It took him a minute to realize that the frantic cries were his own, but by then, the poisonous heat of smoke was turning them raspy and hoarse. He staggered back a step, peeling one hand to scrub at his tearing eyes with bare skin. 

_Jesus. Fuckin.' Christ!_ Over the white-out crackle of static in his ear piece and the roar of the fire, Ken faintly heard Aya's frantic shouts, but he was too busy trying to beat out the new flames eating at the knit of his sweatshirt to reply. Then the entire building shook, and he sprawled over backwards, narrowly missing being hit by hunks of burning acoustic tile that rained down. But what missed him got the short-napped indoor-outdoor carpet, adding the noxious stench of burning rubber from its backing to the thickening air. The acrid stench made him cough and wish for a handkerchief – anything – to tie over his nose and mouth.

"Ken-kun! Ken!"

The scream wasn't Aya's.

"O- Omi!" He choked and spit phlegm. Heart hammering beneath his ribs, Ken had no idea which way to go, and disoriented by the fire, he spun desperately in place. Lurid orange was laced through with startling yellow and blue-white as different things caught and began to burn, turning the office and corridor into a maelstrom of too bright light and enveloping smoke.

"In here- " The boy's lighter voice dissolved into a hacking cough. "Hurry, Ken-kun! I can't see Yohji!"

A partial rectangle of yellow silhouetted on red resolved itself into a doorway, and Ken threw himself blindly through, trusting to luck when he came out of a roll on the other side. He struck with a thud against the corner of a desk, and there, in a chair identical to the one that held Honey's corpse, was his teammate. But the difference was that Omi was alive.

It was hard to tell in the flickering, jumping light, just how much of the mess was blood, and how much was soot and dirt. And the way the younger Weiss writhed and struggled against the ropes that contained him wasn't helping. Dazed and confused, Ken crammed a moment of panic down to the bottom of his soul: _Focus, dammit. Omi needs me to **focus**. _The firelight painted bizarre colors across blond hair and fair skin, shimmering like molten metal on the fine mesh of his torn shirt, even as the swirling smoke obscured everything for longer and longer periods. Ken floundered to his knees, snatching the combat knife from his belt, and began hacking at the tough nylon strands around the hacker's thin wrists. When they were free, he thrust the knife into Omi's trembling hands. "Here. Can you do your legs? I'll look for Yohji."

Bent forward at the waist, the smaller blond sawed clumsily at the bindings around first one ankle, then the other. But there was nothing awkward about the words tumbling from his mouth. "I last saw Yohji-kun over to your left, against the wall. I think the explosion threw him toward the corner."

Despairing, Ken stared at the angle in question; it was engulfed in leaping flames. Unthinkingly, he whispered, "Shit…" but he was already in motion, crawling on hands and knees as fast as he could around the end of the massive executive desk.

His bare hand was burning from contact with the heated floor, and it was beginning to bite into the knees of his black pants when he butted blindly into a softer mass. The black fumes from the smoldering carpet made it impossible to see what he'd found. Choking, the Hunter fumbled along it until he encountered the sole of a shoe, and a hard heel. Another leg was folded awkwardly behind the first; Ken grasped both ankles and began dragging the dead weight back toward Omi.

He barely felt it when another explosion farther away rocked the building to its foundations.

In the leaping light, Ken was able to confirm that he had, indeed, found Yohji; it would have sucked to have rescued one of the enemy, under the circumstances. Not that they were out of the woods. Fighting down a stab of terror, the brunet fished for the wire cutters in his pocket and finished freeing Yohji's legs, peripherally counting their blessings that it was plastic-wrapped speaker wire, and not the deadly thin stuff from the watch still securely around the man's wrist. That would have cut dangerously deep, pulled so tight, whereas the thicker cords merely dug in with no give. As soon as he could, Ken rolled the former detective onto his back, and was relieved when a pulse jumped beneath his questing fingers. All in all, Yohji looked better than he had any right to, the camel colored wool of his sports jacket having smoldered, but not melted the way polyester would have. Although, the scorched coat would ever be the same again. A low, rumbling vibration jerked Ken's attention back up, and past the buckled door he could make out the harsher, livid glow of the now fully involved hallway. Omi patted his shoulder, and shouted in his ear, "Where's Aya-kun?"

"No good." Ken yelled back. "He'll never get to us through that."

Crouched against the older Hunter's side, Omi twisted to look. Fear widened the perpetually child-like eyes, before they narrowed grimly. "No choice. We've got to try it."

"Windows?" Ken could barely hear himself over the crackling roar, but he didn't need ears for the sharp negative shake of the tactician's head. Of course Omi would have noted down any likely escape routes. The slight boy gripped Yohji's shoulders, trying to lift the taller man by sheer will until Ken shook him off. Grunting, the brunet heaved the man first into a slumped, sitting position. Then, planting his own shoulder against the lean midsection, Ken hauled him up. Omi helped drag still bound wrists up over to flop against Ken's back.

"Now!" he shouted.

And damned if the building didn't shudder again. This time, a flaming beam, trailing sparks like a wedding veil of hot white, sagged slowly in front of the door before crashing to the floor. "No…" Ken whispered, then he shrieked "NO! God damn it, no!" Small hands, but surprisingly strong ones, caught at him before he could do something suicidal like rush at the blocked opening anyhow, and it took a second for Ken to register that his best friend was laughing.

Shock stopped the brunet dead in his tracks. Had the stress of facing a horrible death by burning, on top of everything else, finally broken Omi's sanity? Then, a gust of cooler, blessedly fresher air fanned the fire to new heights, and staggering under the wire man's weight, Ken turned into the flowing air.

Where there had been solid wall, there was now a gaping hole, and Omi was dragging him willy-nilly toward it, paying scant attention to burning debris.

A familiar form was scrambling over the crushed masonry and broken bricks. In the wavering light, Aya's glossy, wine dark hair was painted a fiend's scarlet, but Ken didn't care if it were the color of blood; all that mattered was that he'd come for them. Pieces of the drop ceiling were falling in a sputtering, meteoric rain around them that left a brand across Ken's cheekbone, eliciting a yelp and a curse. Aya gripped Omi's extended arms and swung him up and over, and then it was Yohji's turn to be tossed summarily through the make-shift door, landing half on the petit hacker who tried to catch him. Ken met Aya's wide, terrified eyes for a heartbeat, and knew what it was costing his teammate to voluntarily enter the collapsing building.

And then the rest of ceiling fell down.

* * *

Grumpily, Ken leaned against his door frame and cautiously took a deep breath. When it didn't hurt quite as much as he expected, he let it out in a huff of irritation. There was still the entire width of his room to cross before he could crawl back into bed, and he was having some serious doubt as to whether he could make it. 

On the other hand, it was nice that he had managed his first solo trip to the bathroom – he was so fed up with anxious teammates holding him up when all he wanted was to pee in private – but the down side was that he had barely made it to the toilet in the first place because he _ached_. Then again, he hastily reminded himself, anything was better than the humiliation of Omi helping him with a bedpan. That thought alone was enough to spur him into motion.

_I can do this._

And, somehow, he did.

The sheets had had plenty of time to chill down in his absence, and the cold felt initially half-good, then half-painful on the parts of him that were bare. There were enough bandages wrapped around his body to _almost_ qualify as clothing, except that they left strategic parts naked. Not that he wanted to have gotten burned, punched, kicked, stabbed, or otherwise battered _there_, but dammit, if he had to get wrapped up like a mummy, it would have been nice to be totally covered up so that he could stay warm. Groaning, Ken shifted carefully onto his left side and awkwardly tugged the covers up over his shoulders. Christ, but he _hated_ sleeping on his side. Sprawled out flat, one side up or the other – it didn't matter which – was far better. And now, chilled to the bone, it would take him forever to shiver his way back to warmth, anyway, so there was no point in even trying to sleep.

The really annoying part was that he had gotten used to waking up with one or the other of his partners stretched out on the bed beside him. Usually, it was Omi, but Yohji had been there a couple of times, one large hand lying familiarly on Ken's bruised hip, just as an assurance that he wasn't going any place.

Aya had even been there, once, so dead to the world that he hadn't so much as twitched when Ken jerked in surprise.

Of course, he was gone by the time the injured assassin was able to stay awake long enough to appreciate the novelty of the situation. The whole business sucked.

It wasn't that Aya had been avoiding him, exactly. Hell, since they had gotten home, Ken hadn't stayed conscious long enough at a stretch for avoiding/not avoiding to enter into play. Omi had assured him that once they had ruled out a concussion, his cracked ribs were the worst of the damage done. For the rest, burns and scrapes that covered upwards of half his body were annoying, but far from fatal, and sleep was the best remedy for both those and for the pure exhaustion that running for three days straight on nothing but adrenaline had left him with.

But it felt like he had been in bed forever.

He'd been hurt lots worse, many times. As had they all. And compared to what Aya had endured while he was missing, the injuries to Ken were trivial. He accepted all of that, and was prepared to move on… yet, unaccountably, the ex-ball player was thrown off-balance. It was as if gravity had suddenly reversed itself, or the rule of the game altered to allow goals to be scored in the opponent's net; things were just wrong, and out of sorts, and it was inclined to make him feel crabby and unsure of himself.

His bedroom door creaked open without the benefit of a knock, and Ken found himself staring at an Aya dressed in baggy old sweats, with a smudge of white that had to be rice flour across his face. The redhead nodded a silent greeting and, given that his hands were engaged in balancing a loaded tray, he nudged the door shut with his hip.

"Food?" Ken rasped hopefully. God, but he hoped it was something solid; one more spoonful of Omi's favorite red bean ice cream, and he'd scream, smoke-inhalation sore throat or no. The eloquence of his pained expression won him the faint smile that was as close as Aya normally came to a full-fledged grin.

"Yes. Food." the older man murmured. He set the tray on Ken's desk, and turned to help arrange pillows for the grumpy brunet.

"Jesus! I can do it myself." Ken batted his hands away.

"Hmm." Aya folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head consideringly to one side. "I suppose that means that you're not interested in the sponge bath, either. Pity."

Flabbergasted, the injured Hunter didn't even notice when the pillow was pried from his hands, fluffed, and positioned with care behind his lower back. "A- Aya, d- did you just make a joke?" he stammered. Slanted violet speared him with a look that clearly said _what do you take me for?_ and Ken blurted, "You did!"

The tray was settled across his knees, and Aya pulled over the straight-backed chair from the desk before carefully saying, "I want to apologize. I said some things, before, that were unnecessarily harsh."

Maybe this was what had been bugging him, leaving Ken with a sense of things subtly out of whack? On some subliminal level, perhaps he'd already been aware that the Aya who never did things like this was patiently waiting to speak. That, or the world had just come screeching to a halt, and resumed spinning in the opposite direction; there was no other explanation. Not that Aya had never given anyone an apology before, but for him to admit that he should have moderated his bluntness was a first. Ken couldn't help the suspicion in his tone when he growled, "Why now?"

Annoyance flashed across the handsome face, at odds with the ordinary domesticity of the flour. "I'm trying to say that I'm sorry for getting you involved in this mess, for getting you hurt, and for giving a damn about it!" They stared at one another in shocked silence, until the red haired assassin ran a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck. Quietly, he admitted, "That didn't come out quite as I planned."

Mind whirling, there was nothing Ken could say in reply. Obviously, the team's close call had affected the taciturn Hunter more than he was comfortable with, and in a way, it served him right for withholding information time and again. Yet the inept vulnerability wasn't something that his partner would have wished on him, either. Grunting, Ken flipped the top off of a bowl, revealing steamed rice, and settled for muttering, "Thanks for bringing up lunch. I was getting really sick of Omi's idea of invalid food."

"Hm." Aya nodded tacit acceptance of the unspoken suggestion that they change topics. He reached for another bowl, uncovering miso with tiny dumplings and bits of tofu floating on its rich surface. Grinning, Ken traded the rice for soup.

His stomach was comfortably full, and his eyelids were drooping by the time his teammate moved the decimated tray back to the desk, but Ken was reluctant to let go of the peaceful companionship. As Aya shifted the pillows and eased him down to lie flat, the brunet closed his fingers in a lose circle around the man's sinewy wrist, murmuring, "Stay a while?"

A troubled sigh answered his request, then Aya finally shrugged. "All right. Can you slide over a little?"

Gingerly, the brunet complied, making room for the swordsman's slender body. The soft exhalation when the man settled by his side told him that even if Aya's stubborn personality denied it, his body was ready to call it a day. Stifling a chuckle, Ken said instead, "So, how'd you manage to knock down the wall? Not that we weren't glad to see you. I thought we were toast."

"You recall that I had kept one of the explosives?" At the soccer player's sleepy nod, he continued, "It was their ground – they knew the lay of the land." Vivid against the streak of white flour, his violet eyes flickered down, meeting Ken's confused brown. "So I changed the landscape. My intention was to provide an alternate exit that they could not have planned for, but as it turned out, it provided an escape from the fire, instead."

"Why didn't you tell me that was what you wanted the extra explosives for?" Suddenly wide awake, Ken burst out, "Didn't you trust me to not screw it up, or something?"

Aya jerked as if the words had been backed by a physical slap. "No! Of course not." he protested. "I didn't know if we would need it, and you had enough other worries."

Ken bit back the first thing that came to mind, and the second as well. He'd trusted Aya, and the bastard had assumed that he couldn't handle his end of the mission. It was just like the old days, where the red haired swordsman was accustomed to take over in the field, directing the team's every move. Omi was the brains when it came to pre-ops, skillfully gathering the needed data, and planning for every contingency. But when it came down to the crunch, it was Aya's cool genius that controlled them.

Dammit. He wasn't a kid.

Why couldn't the uptight bastard treat him like an equal?

"I'm gonna get some sleep." Ken stated flatly. The younger assassin twisted onto his side, ignoring the unpleasant pull of the burns beneath his bandages. Omi had promised to peel off some of the layers once the salve had been absorbed, since most of them were only first degree, anyway: red, swollen, and inclined to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but far from serious. It was better to think about that, than the deeper ache that no amount of bandages could help.

His announcement was met with silence, but then the bed rocked as Aya got up. Ken didn't open his eyes when the door clicked closed.

* * *

"Go away. I don't want any company." Deep in the enveloping nest of blankets, the surly brunet growled as the knock at his door was repeated. Predictably, whichever of the blonds it was simply came in, anyway. 

"Ah, is that how you talk to a ministering angel, kiddo? No wonder you're stuck up here, all alone."

Well, that answered that question. So it was the wire man's turn to try to do something with him. A corner of the comforter was lifted and, blinking against the afternoon sunlight flooding the bedroom with golden warmth, Ken scowled as ferociously as he could. Yohji's mouth curled into a self-satisfied smirk, and allowed him to yank back control of the bed covers. That the vision in electric blue shirt and tight jeans had referred to himself as an angel certainly came as no surprise, and neither did his presence. Omi had thrown up his hands in disgust and stomped out the last time. And Aya… Aya hadn't been back since their little non-fight the day before. "Yohji. Shut up. Get out."

"Tch. Nope. No can do, Kenken. Your favorite nurse'll have my hide if I come back down empty-handed. I'm supposed to apply the old Kudoh charm, and grill you." The mattress sagged as, again predictably, the lanky man made himself comfortable against the headboard. Exasperated, Ken shoved back the covers and glared at the sardonic grin that beamed down at him.

"Yohji, I'm not gonna repeat myself a third time: get the fuck out of my bedroom." Instead of obeying, long fingers captured Ken's jaw, turning his head from side to side to look at the scarlet brand on the younger Hunter's cheek.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Yohji murmured gently, and by his tone, he didn't mean the angry red mark, either. Against his better judgement, Ken nodded grudgingly. The senior assassin released him, settling back, and said, "Want to talk about it?"

This time, the question elicited a mute shake of the head and, in response to that, a quiet chuckle. "Okay. I can live with a brush-off. For now. Later is good, too." His mood gone mercurial, the balance suddenly shifted back toward the teasing end of the spectrum again, and Yohji stretched lazily, lounging as if he hadn't a care in the world beyond looking good. "How about I get you up to speed on what you've been missing, huh?"

"I guess." reluctantly, Ken agreed. Seeing that Yohji was in no hurry to vacate his place, the weary athlete slid up into a matching position, wincing when the adhesive on one of the remaining band-aides tried to take the fine hairs on his forearm out by the roots. A long arm reached over, snagging a pillow and holding it in place until the battered soccer player relaxed with a groan. Somehow, the playboy resisted making any remarks about cats, and the kinds of things they dragged in. Instead, he rubbed meditatively at the tip of his nose, ostensibly contemplating the smooth, honey brown boards that made up the slanted ceiling of the lodge. Ken sighed, willing his paranoid brain to quit cataloging the minute changes in his companion's appearance: ranging from how the artfully disheveled autumnal hair had been trimmed a bit to remove singed strands, to the way the jewel-bright blue satin shirt had long sleeves that hung down past Yohji's wrists, presumably to conceal the narrow, purple marks made by the wire that had bound him.

But none of the physical damage seemed to extend to his frame of mind as another stretch caused the electric blue shirt to ride up, exposing an inch of tanned flesh. He wriggled down until his lips were close to Ken's ear, and whispered seductively, "Let's see… Omitchi's been burning the midnight oil – if you'll pardon the phrase – back-tracking the faces we saw when we got snatched. One guy he had a really good lead on is already out of the country, but I saw the name of a car rental company in the vehicle they had me in, so there's still hope."

"They're pros, Yotan. I kinda doubt they'd make that kind of a slip." It was an effort to keep his own voice steady, but Ken managed. Mostly. So what if he was a little louder than necessary, considering the distance to his audience? So long as he kept his eyes centered on his own clenched hands, on top of the covers in his own lap, he was fine. The bed jiggled as the out-of-sight, but far from out-of-mind form next to him moved impatiently.

"I know _that_, Kenken. And the fact that they had the obvious sticker on the windshield covered up makes me think that the one on the complimentary map was for real."

The sarcasm brought Ken's head up and whipping around, landing him nose to nose with his companion, and earning Yohji a glare worthy of Aya on a bad day. "Cut it out, Kudoh."

Having gotten a reaction, Yohji let lose a delighted laugh, tilting his head back and showing off strong white teeth. Flushing angrily, Ken glowered at his own fists again. _If this is another prank, so help me God…_ but as the older blond's amusement died down, so did the ex-ball player's temper. It wasn't Yohji's fault that his injured teammate was sore, and crabby… Not only did Ken have to confess that he made a lousy patient unless he was out cold, but it was probably the way Aya and Aya's issues gnawed at his subconscious that was mostly to blame… with his own problems coming in a close second. And, really, while spotting the rental company's name wasn't exactly what they'd had in hoped for at the start of the mission, maybe it wasn't so bad after all. At this point, any information was good information. Ken also had to admit that the PI's reasoning was just as sound as his eyes had been sharp, picking up on a detail like that.

Oh, Hell… He was over-thinking the whole damned thing. Let it go.

Grudgingly, the brunet nodded as he scratched at a patch of new, pink skin. But even if he accepted the glib answer, there were other things that still bugged him about the whole operation, beginning with the older man himself. "So… What happened, Yohji?" demanded Ken as he narrowly watched the blond place a cigarette between his lips. "How could you have let yourself get caught like that?"

" 'Let myself…' " Yohji repeated. His voice trailed off into a wry chuckle, and he nervously finger-combed the thick waves of hair back from his forehead, obviously having forgotten that he no longer had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. "Well… I guess when they grabbed me, I had some grand idea about getting inside their organization, and taking 'em down, so they would quit coming after you guys. But let me tell you, when I saw them bring in the kid, I thought my heart stopped cold. I guess he knew I was thinking about doing something stupid."

"No…" Ken whispered. He snagged the nearer of the lanky assassin's hands, gripping it tight as his own lungs constricted with fear, and the red haired swordsman's callous words rang through his memory: _Why should his fate be any different?_ Somehow, the misanthrope of their team had been the one to pick up on what was going on in Yohji's head, not him, and not Omi. "Aya did. I don't know how he knew, but he did. He warned us."

"Aya?" Yohji stopped dead, lighter half way to his mouth and the dangling cigarette. Only when Ken reached over and snapped the zippo shut did he come back to himself with a shake, like a wet dog coming in out of the rain. "Now, how in the Hell…?" The words trailed off into confusion, and finally the playboy waved his lighter in disgust. "How could he know I was set on getting into some trouble, when **_I_** didn't know? I didn't get the idea to break things loose until I walked into the Tanuki's office, and the cop-bastard started stone-walling me again."

Bewildered, Ken glanced down to discover that he gripped the wire man's other hand so hard that his knuckles were turning white, yet Yohji hadn't protested, or even tried to free himself. In fact, the lean digits were warm and passive in the younger man's grasp, unaccountably bringing the heat of a blush to the top of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. The gust of a whisper against his ear brought Ken's head up with a jerk, to find himself again nose to nose with the handsome playboy, "Tch. Didn't know you cared, Kenken."

Figure in the dead sexy, intimate tone, and Ken sputtered, "Cut it out, you moron." The insult sounded strangled even to him, but humor lit the shadowed green eyes.

"Sure, sure." Yohji replied amiably, returning to his normal, lazy drawl. "If you're done with it, can I have my hand back? Now, where was I? Ah… Omitchi's report. Mind you, I was out of the picture for pretty much everything at the whorehouse, so if you've got questions, you'll have to take them up with him. Anyway, the kid stuck to the cover story, letting them drag it out of him bit by bit. There's a pretty solid chance that the baddies do think I'm a PI who's making a living off of blackmail, and that Omi's a brat I'm using to put the squeeze on some hot-shot local politician. It helps that my background checks out. Now, the thing is, what's interesting is that they didn't care too much about the kid, or about me. Seems they asked about 'Fujita,' and the Press Club. They _might_ buy that Aya's another one of my sources, but I don't know. Something doesn't feel right. For one thing, they made connecting the dots between Aya's cover apartment, the safe houses, and the Kritiker office that they hit look way too easy. It might've been the coincidence of all of 'em being paid for out of the same account, or it might be something more significant."

If there was one thing Ken _did_ trust about the frivolous blond, it was his instincts. If Yohji said that something didn't 'feel right,' then there was definitely something wrong. Granted, Aya had figured that it was his own words in the hotel restroom that had blown his cover. Having a name, and an address to go with it could have unraveled the rest. And the interrogation confirmed what Weiss had already suspected, that the people running the auction, Aya's kidnappers, and their assailants were all one and the same. Sighing, he joined Yohji in leaning his head back and staring up at the sun-warmed glow of the high ceiling. It occurred to the younger Hunter that there was one other question that he had to ask, as well, "What about Honey?"

The weight beside him shifted uncomfortably, and Ken resisted the temptation to sneak a look at his teammate. The lighter clicked as Yohji lit the cigarette and sent a stream of soft, blue-gray smoke curling up into the air. It took very nearly every ounce of will power available on the part of the flinching athlete to _not_ demand that the cancer stick be extinguished immediately, and ruefully, he reflected that the fire at the Hot Body had finally done what his first brush with death had not: it had made him afraid of flames and smoke. Surreptitiously, Ken rubbed at the oldest of his scars, smooth and white along the undersides of his forearms, a reminder of Kase's betrayal and the ending of a promising soccer career. But at least Yohji was too busy with his own delaying tactics to notice.

"Well-l-l…" the wire man's voice trailed off. To Ken's immediate relief, he reached over and stubbed out the cigarette in an abandoned plate on the cluttered nightstand. "Omi said that she must have seen him, when they dragged her into the adjoining office, because she started screaming 'What are you doing to the kid?' One of the big, body guard types slapped her around some, to shut her up. From what Aya told us, this must have been right when she walked in the door, okay?" The blond's voice had grown progressively flatter in the course of his recitation, so that the words barely sounded like a question at all, but Ken still nodded his understanding. _Poor Honey… She was so sure that it was going to work…_

"A guy in a suit that was probably one of the two big shots took over interrogating her. Omi couldn't see exactly what they were doing, but it must have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, because she was crying and screaming… and ended up telling him that the electricity was due to go down in a little while. When Honey-chan tried to tell him that she didn't know anything more, the guy answered that everyone has some secret. Whatever that was supposed to mean. And then the bastard killed her." Bitterly, the former P.I. glanced over, and Ken was struck not only by how his normally easy-going expression had gone tight, but the way his green eyes turned pine-dark with sorrow.

_Yohji has a thing about rescuing women…_

And there had been nothing he could do to help the whore.

Swallowing hard, Ken nodded and stared miserably at his own hands, fingers flexing as if he were wearing his retractable blades. A hard clench would have shot the wickedly sharp, curved claws into any opponent, but it was hard to fight something that was proving to be as elusive as the dissipating cigarette smoke drifting through the air. Maybe it was time to face the facts: whoever the strangers were, Weiss was seriously out-classed. Gambling – and losing - with the life of someone from outside the team…

But, at the same time, it had been Honey's choice to help them. Sure, Ken had put a lot of pressure on the woman, but he kind of doubted that if push had come to shove that she couldn't have told him where to stick it if she had really wanted to. Nobody lived a successful life on the street unless they could stand up for themselves. Especially not somebody caught on the wrong side of the tracks. In that, he and Honey had been a lot alike. At the thought, he shivered, and let some of the anguished tension drain from his muscles. Glancing up, the shorter man was startled to find his companion staring speculatively.

"What's going through your head, Kenken?" Yohji whispered.

"Um… Honey, I guess. She had her own reasons for getting into the middle of this mess." At the slow answer, the blond head dipped briefly, acknowledging. Yohji's generous mouth thinned into a thoughtful line.

"Hn. Not too surprising, I guess, that a smart woman like her was living that kind of a life. Sometimes, you just don't have a lot of choices." A shadow flirted with the man's normally careless expression, turning it somber. For a moment, it was as if Yohji didn't see the brunet at his side at all, but saw something darker out of the past. He shook himself, flashing a humorless grin. "So, twenty-thousand-yen question, what do you think her motives were?"

Ken could play along, although he wasn't completely sure what the game was that his teammate was playing. There seemed to be a whole other conversation beneath their words, nuances and meanings that the athlete just didn't get. They slipped through his mental fingers like dry sand, leaving behind nothing but dust, and a nagging itch. He grimaced. "I dunno. Cash, and family, I guess. I don't believe that there is such a thing as a whore with a heart of gold. Not really, anyway. But whatever her reasons were, she didn't deserve to die like that. No one does."

Caught unawares by the blunt reply, Yohji stared at the other Hunter for a long moment, then asked softly, "Do you blame yourself for her getting killed?"

It was Ken's turn to be surprised, and he could only return the steady regard as best he could. "No… Not really. Honey was like us. A professional. She knew the risks, and made her own choices. Whether they deserved it, or not, she was trying to help her cousins. And… that's like us, too. I won't dishonor her sacrifice by taking the credit for it away from her, by making it _my_ fault."

The speech wrung an unexpected laugh from the older blond. Smiling, Yohji shook his head, and gathered his younger teammate into a brotherly hug. "When did you get so wise, Kenken?" he murmured.

Blushing at the compliment, Ken fought off the urge to do the verbal equivalent of shuffling his feet; 'wise' wasn't a word that he could remember ever having applied to him, and hearing it come out of Yohji's mouth somehow made the confusion worse. Maybe he was still over-thinking things? Something, certainly, was interfering with the younger man's ability to keep up with the street-smart PI even half as well as he typically did…

The alternative was that Ken was hallucinating the moist heat of the tongue licking at the side of his neck, just where the earlobe joined it.

The firm/soft sensations, like brass knuckles inside a velvet glove, were insidiously robbing the soccer player of his higher brain functions, one by one. Okay… it wasn't as if Kase hadn't laughed mercilessly at him in the past for turning into a drooling idiot whenever a fangirl – or boy - got inside his defenses, and God! - the knowing touch was hitting the _exact_ spot… A deliciously wicked scrape of teeth and a low, gratified hum of amusement reminded Ken that it was _Yohji._

Yohji?

It couldn't be. Sure, the blond flirted all the time; leaning confidingly into Ken's space, then whispering something obscene in the younger man's ear, or draping his long body carelessly up Ken's back, knowing that there was just no way the sensation could be ignored. That was standard operating procedure in Weiss. You either got used to it, or had a stroke fighting it, and Ken had learned to blow it off within weeks of when the ex-PI had joined the team, eventually even teaming up with Omi for retaliatory pranks when it became obvious that thinking of the baby assassin and sex in the same sentence messed with the older man's sanity. Not that that had put a stop to the playboy being himself. But none of the jokes and teasing meant a thing beyond Yohji using his incredible body to screw with the universe's percentages, and with the brains of every still-breathing human within the blast radius of his personality. In fact, as a wave of heat flushed Ken's skin, the distracted Hunter wondered if he oughtn't to change the statement to include the non-breathing, as well. A rough, purring laugh punctuated by an occasional appreciative word finally penetrated Ken's consciousness, and he was forced to amend the 'it couldn't,' to 'it _could_.' The lean, clever hands roaming across the brunet's torso, dipping alarmingly close to the boundary line formed by the edge of the comforter at his waist, weren't just teasing. They were using every trick in the playboy's alarmingly well-versed arsenal to reduce an injured teammate to Jello, robbing the automatic punch aimed at back of the honey-blond skull of its power.

Yohji didn't look like a big guy - all long ropes of muscle stretched on a skinny frame that somehow managed to be sleek and graceful in motion – but he was surprisingly solid. Combining that with his height, the lazy playboy had no trouble pinning his recuperating teammate to the mattress… not, Ken thought hazily as fingertips danced across the demilitarized zone between exposed skin and that covered by his blankets, that it was much of a battle. Something about the smoky, whiskey-and-cigarette-scented hair tickling his nose was acting like a tranquilizer dart in a real tiger's haunch; it was slowing down his goalie's reflexes, slowing down the assassin that lived under the younger man's skin, turning him into a shivering doormat… Christ all mighty, what would he do if Yohji decided to walk all over him?

Maybe it was because Ken was exhausted from struggling to get through to Aya all the time, and ending up smacking head first into the Fujimiya bricks? Whatever. Omi and Aya between them had stripped away the numbing insulation celibacy had provided, and it just figured that the predator in Yohji could smell out defenseless sexual prey. As one long leg rubbed unhurriedly along Ken's calf and thigh, the shorter assassin gave a throaty moan and arched his back.

"God, Kenken…" Yohji's chuckle was shaken. "Do you have a fuckin' _clue_ what you look like…?"

"No… Tell me?" he whispered back, eyes firmly closed. Just then, the temptation to hear _someone_ say the words was overwhelming. Silent Aya, who fought to bottle everything up inside, who was busy cementing shut every chink that had been opened in his soul by his ordeal, had torn down _Ken's_ walls and left him wanting. Was it so terribly wrong to let Yohji have what Aya had refused? A light kiss that turned briefly insistent found the spot beside the trembling brunet's ear again, and then the low words were vibrating against his skin, all laziness forgotten.

"Hmm… Sexy, so damned sexy, Kenken. All this time, I've been watching you with those boys, wondering if you were as responsive as you looked… wanting a chance to try it out for myself. See if you're the kind to beg, or if you like to curse when you feel my hands on you…" Strong fingers were weaving themselves up into Ken's messy hair, tipping his head that fraction of an inch that allowed the tongue, and words – delicious, teasing, connecting his skin to his gut in one tight-strung strand of steel, like Yohji's wire words – to slide slowly down the younger man's neck to his collar bones. The broad hand slipped around to the back of his skull, nails just scrapping between the roots of thick, black and brown hair till goose bumps started across Ken's bare chest. The licking, kissing mouth followed, adding first the heat of breath, and then the cool of moisture.

"I love seeing you without a shirt, Ken. Always a surprise, and a pleasure, to find out you're hiding all this gorgeous muscle under a plain vanilla outside. Didja know, I watched you doing reps with those free weights, wearing nothing but those baggy soccer shorts, up on the roof…? Morning light, shining on the sweat, pecs and abs flexing… God, what a sight-! Made me hard, so hard, that rhythm just… like… sex."

Without thinking, Ken arched a little more, lifting sternum and tensing abs into a harder, knowing caress that had somehow made it from his neck on down during the low recitation. Between Yohji's touch, and honey-thickened voice, he could imagine being back on the Koneko's roof, taking advantage of the summer breeze when his tiny apartment was stifling and airless, doing his crunches and push-ups till they blurred into meditative non-thought. The idea that Yohji might have come up for a final smoke at dawn, before finally hitting the sack, maybe still dressed in his tight clubbing gear, or maybe shirtless for the breeze, too… it was doing something to a bit of Ken's tightly closed off imagination. He gave a frustrated whine, and would have reached out to pull Yohji over on top, except that the more experienced blond anticipated the move, and caught his companion's wrist, drawing his arm up to lie passively on the pillow over his head.

"Hn. Not yet, sweet heart. Not quite done with you yet, you know?" The wicked chuckle hit just as Yohji's mouth grazed past the nearer of Ken's nipples, turning the teasing touch electric.

"Bastard." The harsh gasp hardly sounded like his own voice, and cracked into a sputter that was less pleading than it was a growing keen of grief. Frustrated tears were soaking into the tangled hair along his temples, hot and sticky at the same time. Then he was being pulled up into a rough embrace, snarled in blankets and sheets on the one side and flush against slick satin that was both cool and body-heat warm on the other. Yohji's palm was cradling the back of his skull, and the lean body was rocking gently, drawing Ken into the comforting sway.

"It's Aya, isn't it? He's what's got you in such a mess…" Raw sympathy, Yohji being completely honest, for once, broke the last of the Ken's reserve, and he nearly howled, "God damn it, Yohji, just fuck me and get it over with! I don't want your-"

"Shut up, Ken." The simple statement was delivered without malice, just as a steel grip abruptly twisted the athlete's arm up and behind his back, into a neat hold that rendered him powerless to escape the unwelcome comforting. Automatically, Ken tried to struggle free, and promptly discovered that trickery and martial arts again prevailed over brute strength, and he was helpless. In silent apology, Yohji pressed a light kiss to the trapped man's forehead.

The fight drained out of Ken.

"Look, I know you don't think much of my morals," The husky whisper against sweaty, sun-streaked hair drew a shiver from Ken. "But I won't just fuck you. You want it, but it's for all the wrong reasons… and I'm the wrong person, too. You may not believe it, but if I'm a slut, then I'm an _honorable_ slut, Kenken. I'll tease you till you burst a blood vessel, but I'll never actually hurt you. Got that?" When the words penetrated, and the younger assassin managed a shaky nod, the pressure on his arm fell away although the hug remained. "So… _now_ you wanna tell me what's going on with you two?"

"We… keep fighting. It's like I've got no idea what's going on inside his head." Ken muttered thickly. "He pushes us away, then he blows off the surveillance on the cops to come rescue Omi and me. He… touches me, does stuff… then he tells me I'll never understand, and he storms out again. I- I have no fucking clue what he's thinking!" The clot in his throat broke free, becoming a hoarse, open-mouthed sob.

He was barely thinking as the patient detective skillfully extracted each and every one of his stupid, screwed up encounters with his redheaded tormenter from his memory. Oddly enough, it felt good to dump the disastrous mess onto the playboy, even if it meant getting laughed at for his pains.

Except, Yohji wasn't laughing.

In fact, his lean fingers were still kneading thoughtfully at Ken's shoulders. The non-judgmental, comforting touch felt like a friend's and the concept finally shocked the act-first, think later ball player into silence. He leaned back and simply stared.

"What?" Concern shaded into amusement in the summer-green eyes and, prompted by habit, Ken growled. Then he poked the satin-and-tear-stain covered chest. Hard.

"You listened. Without making any smart-ass comments. What is _wrong_ with you?"

Yohji shrugged. "I could go back to trying to get in your pants, if you want. Oops, not wearing any under that sheet, are you, Kenken? Guess I only 'rise to the occasion' if it's a challenge."

"Smart ass." Glowering, the brunet repeated the insult. "You're trying to change the subject." And, much to his surprise, the older man laughed out loud.

"Touché. My secret is out: I'm really a closet romantic, and the thought of you melting the Ice Prince does it for me. So much so, that I'll even deny you the pleasure of the Kudoh experience." His hand snapped up to deflect the automatic slap aimed at the side of his skull, as he made puppy-eyes at the smaller Hunter still coiled in his lap. Then the obnoxious grin eased into a kinder, genuine smile. "Joking aside, you mentioned Aya yelling at you about reading that book, the one about the Meiji assassin that he's obsessed with. Do you want some help with that? I think I might know what's got our fearless leader's undies in a twist."

"You do?" Hope leaped in Ken's chest, ordering him to forget worrying about the source, and to go for it.

"Yup. And if I'm right," the blond paused to leer significantly, "I'll collect my finder's fee later. Deal?"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Ken snapped impatiently. He wriggled free of the loosening embrace, suddenly self-conscious. "You find a way to explain Aya so that he makes sense, and you can name your price, okay?"

"Sure thing, sweet cheeks. Lemme go get the book." The smooch and quick grope that he gave Ken as he lazily rose from the bed hardly registered, eclipsed by the sudden fire of curiosity - and hope - that flooded the athlete's brain.

Could the investigator actually have spotted something that would be of use? Yohji _said_ that he thought he knew what Aya had been referring to, and the chance to finally get a lead on what was going on in that messed up psyche would be worth any amount of teasing… even sex, if that was the fee that Yohji had in mind charging. Then again, maybe it wasn't…? Who'd a thought that Tokyo's gift to women – and apparently, men – would scruple to bed someone who was willing? A flush burned across Ken's face; he'd not only been willing for a few minutes there, but eager. Anything, just to get the memory of Aya out of his head. To judge by Yohji's skillful approach, the route to forgetfulness wouldn't have been bad, at all.

He was still pink when the lanky figure in blue ambled back into his bedroom, and the sight of denim hugging long legs did bad, bad things for Ken's self-control. Thankfully, the too perceptive green eyes were otherwise occupied. Flipping rapidly through the book, Yohji eventually stopped better than half-way through and thrust the volume into Ken's hands. "Here. Start reading at the top of the page."

"What?" All it got him was one of the man's most annoyingly inscrutable looks as Yohji winked and turned to leave, not bothering to offer an explanation. Ken growled and threw himself back against the headboard to follow orders.

Unlike the other bits that he had read, this chapter seemed to have been written by someone other than the famed Choshu assassin, and it took Ken a while to figure out the who: Himura Kenshin's son, Kenji. But once he did, he grasped the reason for the tall blond's reluctance to just tell him easily enough, and it was that reluctance that made him sit up and take the time to go through the book more carefully.

… _that there were many and varied regrets in the course of my father's life is something that I have come to accept, even as I sorrow, and it is because of that acceptance that I now understand that there was one whom he loved with a passion bordering on hatred, one whose simple existence meant more to him than that of my mother, his wife, or of my uncle Sagara-san, or even his bake wakashu, Yahiko-kun. That this person was not only a man, but an enemy, was the source of much anguish for my father, for the root of their differences lay not in Saitou's position with the Shinsengumi, who supported the Bakufu, rather than the Choshu and Satsuma factions, but in his belief that killing was an acceptable way to stamp out evil. For, as very nearly the sole survivor of the upper echelons of that group, Saitou Hajime embraced the philosophy of Aku Soku Zan, even as my father foreswore the killing of even the guilty. _

_I believe that it was this insurmountable difference that drove them to part company, despite discovering that they fought for the same goals, ultimately._

* * *

Dammit. Now his brain was humming with conflicting urges, just as much as his body was. Reading that section of the book after Yohji had dumped it on him generated practically more questions than it had answered. Yeah, sure… Ken could see what the older man was getting at; if Aya had brain-washed himself into thinking that his situation paralleled that of the near-mythic red haired hitokiri of the Restoration, then it would provide him with all the excuses that the modern Kritiker assassin would need to keep on punishing himself. They were none of them free of sin – look at Yohji with that pretentious tattoo. If the team's generous, fun-loving playboy had seen the need to brand himself with an outward mark of the stain on his soul, where did that leave the rest of them? Even Omi, true-hearted and pure that he was, carried around a load of darkness and nightmares. 

So… what if that Himura guy had, too? Aya wasn't the Choshu's sword, any more than Ken was. True, it was rare that they got a mission with no gray areas at all – just look at some of the politicians that Persia had sent them after during his brother's coup – and sometimes, the innocent died. Ken threw the book at his rumpled bed and put some of his nervous energy to use limping carefully from one side of his room to the other.

The innocent. Was that what this mess was all about, and not Himura, at all? Aya's history before Weiss was kind of vague, but from what the ball player had been able to learn, it sure seemed that the Takatori had deserved their fates, every one of them being more rotten than the last. In a way, it was a blessing in disguise that Takatori Reiji's callous disregard for his youngest child had landed that boy with Persia and Manx. They might not have done the greatest job parenting – no one could argue that turning their charge into an assassin was definitely not according to Dr. Spock – but they had given the kid an unfailing sense of what was right, and decent, and good in the world, and the chance to fight for it.

What more could any of them ask for, than that?

Ken paused by the mirror, and stared at himself: fit and healthy in nothing but shorts, despite fresh pink patches from going up against the burning whorehouse. Chestnut and sooty black streaked hair that was way past needing a trim, fell down across wide brown eyes that let the world outside too easily see every thought flittering through his head, but for all that, it was an honest, likeable face. Maybe he wasn't the smartest member of Weiss, but he did okay, holding up his end of things. The guilty hands curling unconsciously into fists were his contribution to the battle against the Dark Beasts.

For a second, he could have sworn that the darkness was dripping from his bugnuks like ink, puddling in a tide of night that threatened to swallow him from the ankles up, but he blinked, and the illusion was gone.

"What are you doing out of bed?" The low, barely curious words from behind spun Ken around, and nearly knocked him off his unsteady feet.

"A- Aya! What-" Involuntarily, half-spooked by the noiseless intrusion, the younger man took a clumsy step backwards, knocking against the mirror. A scowl flitted across pale, composed features, and the swordsman reluctantly gave up his post leaning against the open doorframe to stalk silently on stocking feet across the room.

"I heard you walking around from downstairs. Go back to bed." The implacable voice implied that the injured athlete was an idiot, but that it was no skin off of Aya's nose if it came down to smacking some sense into him; either way the result would be the same, and Ken would be back under the covers.

Being scolded so coldly made the brunet want to whine in protest, something that he figured would go over like the proverbial lead balloon. Instead, he tried to walk past with careful dignity, and lowered himself gingerly to the mattress, grumbling, "Fine, fine… So sue me if I can't stand being stuck here any more."

The stern set of Aya's mouth softened, quirking into a small, malicious smile. "Ah. I see. Would you like me to have Yohji come up to tuck you in?"

A hot flare of anger brought Ken surging to his feet, ready to connect his fist with the jaw of the stubborn, red haired bastard- Until realization stopped him in his tracks; Aya had subtly braced himself in anticipation of the violence, yet he made no move to slip into a defensive stance.

Ken's shoulders slumped as his fist dropped to hang limply at his side. "Christ, you _want_ me to hit you, or something? What is with you? I don't understand what makes you act like this." Tentatively, he took first one, then another slow step closer to the slender figure in its armor of faded black knit, and carefully reached out his other hand to touch a strand of unkempt hair. It had grown out a bit in the past couple of weeks, reaching now in a ragged line to brush elegant brows that pulled down into an uneasy frown. "Aya... I don't want to fight with you. I- I'm tired of it... of fighting. Of you, and me... of us pushing each other away all the time."

Startled violet, catching at the room's fading light, flashed up to meet Ken's tired gaze, before skating uncontrollably to one side. But he didn't resist when the other Hunter leaned a head of bitter brown hair into the side of his neck. In fact, he exhaled quietly, murmuring, "Me, too."

They stood there together, barely touching, for a long while as the spring evening ebbed toward nightfall. Somewhere below, the faint sounds of rattling dishes and the muted racket of a TV game show reminded them that they really weren't alone, that the rest of Weiss was occupied with mundane things like fixing dinner. But it didn't seem to matter. Ken nuzzled at the line where sweater collar met skin, feeling goose bumps spring into existence when his breath first warmed, then cooled. Aya's hand slid up to cradle the back of his skull, holding the athlete steady against him. He whispered, "I came upstairs to tell you to go to bed."

"Okay." Ken whispered back. "So tell me, why don't you?" That got him a barely felt chuckle, vibrating against his forehead.

"Ken. Go to bed."

"Hah." He snuggled against the thick knit, smelling the lingering tang of laundry detergent, and the cedar lining of the closet in Aya's room. Under that was the soap and shampoo scent of fastidious cleanliness, reminding the younger man on some subliminal level of the feeling of safety that had belonged to the convent school and the attached orphanage. The scrubbed corridors, and scratchy, fresh sheets of dormitory beds, and the nuns' habits... the first, and best home that he could remember. A home that he hadn't appreciated until years and disasters later, until now, when a teammate reminded him. The living pillow shifted minutely, conveying mild exasperation.

"Fine. We'll both go." The fingers laced into Ken's hair slid down, gripping his upper arm with the same irresistible insistence of a nun enforcing curfew, as the swordsman urged his captive toward his waiting mattress and the snarled bedding. Snickering, Ken briefly entertained an image of Aya finding himself in a long black habit, instead of his baggy sweater, glaring fit to commit murder, and what Yohji would probably say if he knew the direction of supposedly innocent Kenken's thoughts. Aya added, "I'm not sure that I want to know what's so funny."

"No, you don't." agreed the former ball player, allowing himself to docilely follow the slim redhead's lead. "Some things really are best left as secrets."

"Hn." Aya grunted. "Bed." He pushed and tugged at the unresisting body as if Ken where an especially uncooperative piece of furniture, or a picture that just had to hang tilted on the wall. It was too bad that the redhead didn't seem to notice that every contact with those sword-callused fingers was driving away the lethargy that had gripped the younger man, reminding him that that damned wire man, Yohji, had basically taken his ball and gone home, rather than play nice. But there was a difference to their touches, too. The older blond promised good times, while Aya... Aya felt like he smelled.

Like home.

There was a quizzical tilt to the man's head as he looked down at the idiotic grin creeping across Ken's face. The diffused light spilling through the half-open bedroom door from the hallway beyond painted shadows down one side of him, blending black clothing into darkness, while limning a straight nose and firm jaw. He seemed unaware of a sudden pang that clutched Ken's chest, or the way the new emotions were getting tangled up. But Aya made no objection when Ken pulled him down into the blankets, and then burrowed his face into the redhead's shabby sweater.

"Aya. Make love to me."

The lengthy pause made Ken think that he had been refused, but then a quiet "All right." drove the pent up breath from his lungs, and he sagged in relief. He turned his head fractionally, meeting unreadable violet eyes as Aya propped himself up on one elbow. They might have stayed that way all night, with the wary brunet trapped by the calm scrutiny, except that translucent lids closed slowly over the remarkable, twilight gaze until long lashes lay in perfect arcs against the pale skin. Aya's head dipped down, placing a lingering kiss on Ken's temple.

He shivered at the brush of soft skin. The kiss wandered lower, grazing his ear lobe, and it took a minute for him to realize that the moist warmth of an exhalation contained a word: "Relax." _Right… relax…?Ha! _In spite of himself, Ken snorted derisively, but the snort got transformed into a gasp when sharp teeth nipped to reinforce the command. Strong fingers trapped his head from the other side, holding him still while Aya's mouth traced a leisurely line from ear, to jaw, to chin.

It was almost exactly the same thing that Yohji had done earlier, but despite that, the sensations were nothing the same. Yohji's caress was frank, and open, knowing exactly what he was capable of and generously willing. By contrast, everything about the redhead was about control. Each precise, skillful touch burned hotter than the whorehouse fire, and at the same time, was dry ice cold.

God, what Ken wouldn't give to feel Aya slip from his leash. And, as if the quiet groan had been words, unreadable slanted eyes flicked up briefly to meet Ken's before drifting half-closed, veiling the assassin's response. Aya slid gracefully from the bed, and pulled off his bulky sweater. But he didn't stop there, grasping the hem of the black tee-shirt that molded itself to his torso and stripping it away with the same smooth, economical movements, revealing taut muscle wrapped in milky skin that to the younger man's glazed eyes seemed to glow.

"Whoa." muttered Ken. "Go take a cold shower, stupid brain." The admonishment helped, letting him mentally smack his libido back in line. This was _Aya_, for Christ's sake, not some pretty Tanagawa whore. Aya, who had nearly died, neglected, locked in a fucking basement. Aya, who paused in the act of unzipping black jeans to give his partner a wary stare, as if talking to himself might be an indicator that Ken's sanity had finally slipped around the bend.

Shaking his head slightly, the redhead left the unfastened pants loose around his hips, padding first to Ken's desk to turn on the small lamp, then over to silently close the hall door, shutting off the noises of their housemates. Coming back into the pool of warmer, yellow light filtering through the lamp's shade, he very deliberately peeled away the rest of his clothing, and waited, nude, for a long moment.

Letting Ken look his fill.

That the pale skin glowed, was definitely a delusion brought on by an over-wrought brain. But even discounting that, Aya was beautiful. He'd gained back some of the weight he'd lost during his captivity, turning his lines predator-sleek, so that the pattern of scars took on the aspect of an animal's markings. So of course Ken's eyes followed the pointing triangle from the breadth of masculine shoulders to just as masculinely narrow hips, to carmine-dark, red curls. It was beyond gratifying to see that Aya was mostly erect, and hardening under the weight of Ken's perusal.

It just wasn't possible. How could a creature that threatened to drive the breath from his lungs – incredible and unearthly, while still completely and utterly mortal – be standing there? For him? Mute, Ken held out his hands.

But Aya was no apparition. He allowed the brunet to tangle their fingers together before inexorably pushing their entwined hands down to rest on the bedding. His head dipped down to brush a kiss over first one, then the other of the brown nipples. The tremulous whimper that the gesture elicited made the kisses return, open-mouthed and wet, the tip of his tongue curling around the rising peak. Unable to help himself, the shaking athlete bucked up against the temptation, only to have the solid weight sitting beside him lean in to hold him down.

And maybe that was a good thing, considering what Aya was doing to him. Whatever doubts Ken might have entertained about the slim swordsman being experienced were long gone – right on the heels of rational thought and the memory of the house being occupied by two more people. Ken cursed, hoarse and mostly incoherent, when the imprisoning hands refused to let him go, dammit! He wanted to run his own hands over flexing muscles, to feel the subtle shift and play of strength under him – not to be pinned down, helpless. But when teeth scraped lightly at the hollow between his collarbones, everything except his bones liquefied in the electric shock.

Dazed, Ken barely noticed when lean fingers slipped from his, turning so that thumb and forefinger closed around the solid mass of his wrists, stroking light and gentle over the tendons and pulse points before releasing him entirely.

The mattress tipped and shifted as Aya switched from sitting on the edge to stretching full length along Ken's side. The shorter Hunter wrestled his eyes open far enough to stare at the inhumanly calm face so close to his, feeling the steady rhythm of the swordsman's heart speed up at the proximity, before being ruthlessly tamed again. It was grief that Ken felt in that instant, over how unwilling Aya was to let go, even as he gave in to his partner's entreaties.

_Aya. Make love to me._

Freeing his sister from Esstet had subtly broken something inside Aya. The lingering rage that had prompted spectacular tantrums against the Takatori had already burned out, but letting Aya-chan walk out of his life without even contacting her, had turned the ashes cold and bitter. More than anything, just then, Ken wanted to break past the barriers. Wanted not only to mend the fractures caused by the distant redhead's captivity, but to wipe away the older hurts as well.

But he didn't have the courage to say, 'Let me love you back.'

Assuming that Ken even could.

Wasn't he just as damaged, with his obsession about Kase, and the way the berserk rages tempted him to let his mind fall away, and never come back? It would be so easy to let go, to forget everything that had ever mattered and just live for the immediacy of each kill. But at the same time, the whimpering Hunter didn't _want_ to let go; if he did, he would lose the sense that what Weiss was trying to do was worth the carnage and sin.

"Don't think, Ken." The soft command broke into his thoughts, scattering them like chaff in the face of the Divine Wind. Then the callused hand was back, briefly circling the younger man's wrist, squeezing the solid mass of bones and tendons nearly to the point of pain, as Aya added, "Not even about me."

Shocked, dark brown eyes flew open wide, catching the echo of hurt on the pale oval hovering close enough to kiss. So he did the only thing he could think of, raising his head far enough from the pillow to let his actions say what words couldn't.

Aya's mouth tensed, resistant, before yielding to open and return the fierce onslaught. The flashes of teeth and tongue, teasing, were more than enough to force Ken into obedience; destroying his capacity to worry any further about the psychology of the situation. Instead, his attention was focused on the touch of lean shoulders to slim waist, of a sleek length moving purposefully along his own more compact, muscled body. Being arranged lying flat on his back with his knees upraised, and the soles of his feet planted firmly on the mattress felt awkward. Ken longed to move, to reciprocate, but the all-over ache of his body emphatically said _nothing doing!_ He had no choice but to allow Aya to set the pace, and the problem with that was that the redhead was proving to have a sadistic gift for winding him up until he thought he was going to die from over-stimulation, and then backing off just enough to let the former ball player regain his focus.

It was leaving him hungry to just dammit get to the main event.

But Aya had made it clear that it was his show. Each slow, tender touch was deliberately contributing toward his goal, and each time Ken twitched impatiently, that impatience was redirected until the trembling eased. Kneeling over the gasping brunet, Aya lowered his head until the short-cropped length of his bangs brushed over first one cinnamon-brown nipple, then the other. The next pass, it was his forehead that lightly grazed the taut skin, and then the wet heat of his mouth was sucking on the painfully aroused nub. Choking back an inarticulate cry, Ken arched, and as his hips lifted involuntarily, the hand that had been gripping his thigh slid beneath his buttocks.

The short, panting breaths weren't pulling enough oxygen into his starved lungs, and black patches were growing in front of Ken's eyes. Blindly, he stared at the golden-brown slope of the wooden ceiling overhead as he fought to separate the sensations flooding over him, the slow lapping of a tongue getting confused with stroking fingers. Aya eased up just enough for Ken to take a deeper breath, then drove a finger in, extracting a strangled scream.

_Oh… God!_

Hard muscled arms were holding down his thrashing hips, refusing to allow Ken to buck wildly even as the burning pressure expanded, touching places that he'd half forgotten. But Kase's touch had never made him so crazy. A half memory of his former best friend's triumphant laughter, reveling in Ken's responsiveness and willingness to lose himself at another's direction flitted past, only to be lost in the here and now caress of someone else. Someone whose silence by contrast was even more capable of reducing the soccer player to sobbing incoherence.

Kase…. Kase couldn't begin to compare to what Aya could do to Ken's body, heart, and soul.

His pulse was slowly approaching something like normal as gentle hands palmed his chest and stomach, rubbing in calming circles until Ken could think and hear again. The familiar, deep voice said, "I want you to stay where you are, and trust me." Jerkily, Ken nodded, unable to rely on his voice even for something as simple as giving his consent. Although he nearly had second thoughts when his partner's lean body curled on its side, seating Ken's rump firmly in Aya's lap. The nearer of Ken's legs wound up hooked over top of the redhead's hip, while the other was trapped between Aya's thighs.

Ken turned his head to find opaque pewter staring at him with calculating intensity. Then Aya blinked, and frowned. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"N- no…" he whispered. "Just feels kinda weird." And it did. He couldn't remember lying on his back for sex without a solid weight to hold him down; it made him feel vulnerable and too naked.

"Ah." The noncommittal sound was pure Aya. Lying on his side, head pillowed on one out-flung arm, the older Hunter seemed to read every random, nervous thought zinging through the brunet's brain. Sweat sheened the milk-pale skin, but every breath was steady and even. A wry smile abruptly quirked his lips, and he said softly, "Your injuries aren't severe, but I didn't want to put pressure on the burns, as that would be very painful. Does that make sense?" Aya's free hand settled lightly on Ken's stomach, and stroked down until callused fingers tangled into dark curls. At the same time, the narrow hips moved, settling Ken's bottom against Aya's groin.

Whimpering, the brunet pushed in return, grinding until he saw Aya flush, and felt the iron command slip. But even then, Aya was holding back, waiting for an answer. Ken gasped, "Yeah, I get it. Christ, Aya… I…" but the rest of the sentence was swallowed by a moan when Aya drew back, and then _pushed_.

Dazedly, Ken bit down on the inside of his cheek to contain the noises he was starting to make. At some point, when he hadn't been paying attention, Aya had slicked himself up so that the slow penetration was hot but surprisingly painless. Ignoring the steel grip on his own cock, Ken invited the intrusive pressure deeper, tightening internal muscles, then releasing them, until he couldn't stand it any more.

"Slow…" a low voice counseled. Lean hips flexed, drawing back, then thrusting forward with exquisite precision. Bracing himself, Ken reciprocated, discovering that despite having one limb pinned and a clever hand massaging around the base of his cock, he was still the one in control, and could chose the exact angle of the earth-shaking impact.

The deliberate rhythm had the measured cadence of a dance, sensuous and lingering, gradually building until Ken was sobbing out loud, matching the ragged, open-mouthed gasps of the man making love to him. Just as the shaking brunet reached the point where his movements disintegrated into convulsions, Aya let go, driving himself once, twice, and a third time into the shuddering body he clutched tightly. The force of the redhead's orgasm wrung a scream from Ken as he bent back in a taut bow, semen jetting over his stomach and the rumpled bedding.

* * *

The sweaty sheets had been changed for cool, crisp cotton that felt better than silk against Ken's over-sensitized skin. He frowned a little, vaguely remembering strong hands rolling him like an invalid first onto one side, then the other as the bedding had been changed. A line of warmth all down his left side and looped across his middle attracted his attention next, and he blinked open confused eyes. 

It would have been too weird if the post-sex clean-up had been performed by Yohji, but Ken was still relieved to see familiar dark crimson, rather than autumn gold on the pillow.

Aya had tucked the covers up around his bedmate's bare chest, but left himself largely bare. Damp tendrils of fine hair clung to his forehead, and curled at the hinge of his jaw, and the faint flush from a hot shower lent color to skin that resisted tanning. Scars, ice white for the oldest, and a raw red for the newest marred the perfection, making the swordsman mortally attractive, instead of inhumanly beautiful. Ken breathed out shakily, tempted to cover the wound on Aya's shoulder that had come from his kidnapping; just then, he didn't want to be reminded of the past weeks' events, didn't want memory to spoil something so precious.

But there was still an enemy out there.

"Aya." A soft grunt from the apparently sleeping redhead confirmed that he was, indeed, already awake, even though he'd made no move to get out of Ken's bed. Taking that as a good sign, the younger man said quietly, "I borrowed that book back from Yohji. Your – _our_ – situation is nothing like that Himura guy's. Or Saitou Hajime's."

The swordsman's eyes were open, narrow slits of angry color in his pale face. Ken's hand closed on the wrist of the arm still flung across his waist, fingers grinding painfully into the small bones when Aya tried to jerk free. Before he could be shut out entirely, the brunet continued doggedly. "Himura was wrong to give up the person he loved, to turn his back on everything. _You're_ wrong to do the same thing, to us. To me."

"Himura was a _murderer_." Aya hissed furiously, tensing where he lay at Ken's side. "He realized that what he'd done was wrong, and made the decision to atone. Saitou… did not. How could anyone in their right mind be expected to stay with someone who refused to repent?"

A spark of anger lit in Ken's gut, but he ignored the warning bells at the back of his mind, snapping back, "They were on opposite sides in a political revolt – but that's a question of right and wrong, not good and evil, Aya. Us… we made the same mistake, getting caught between the Takatori. Saitou changed his name, and became a policeman so he could fight corruption. We can do the same!"

Instinct gave the shorter Hunter a half a second's advance notice as the trapped redhead exploded into action, but for once it was enough. Ken levered the lean body over, wrapping one leg around the vicious kick aimed for the side of his knee as his right arm snaked up into a choke hold on Aya's neck. Neither of them was in the best of shape, but when it came to a contest of strength versus strength, Ken had the advantage in both weight and muscle mass. Gasping, he snarled into the exposed ear a scant inch from his mouth, "He. Was. Wrong."

The tangled bed clothes caught between their straining bodies gave Aya's an opportunity to writhe out of Ken's hold on his legs. But the advantage was short lived when Ken growled and transferred his grip to the nape of the redhead's neck, flipping the two of them over in a heap onto the floor. The compact ball player landed on top, ruthlessly slamming his quarry's injured shoulder into the polished boards, incapacitating one arm in numbing agony. Furious, he shouted, "Listen to me! 'Saitou Hajime lived by the Shinsengumi's motto: 'aku soku zan.' Slay. Evil. Instantly. They weren't just words, Aya, they were his _life_. What the Hell did he have to repent _for_?"

Rage overrode the pain contorting Aya's flushed face. Tightly, he hissed, "Fuck you, Hidaka." And in the moment of stunned shock that followed, Ken found himself flying ass over tea kettle, and slamming into the front of his dresser. Before he could unscramble his brain and tongue, let alone his limbs, the door was ricocheting off the wall as Aya yanked it open and stormed out.

The younger man gave up and sagged against the floor.

**_

* * *

To be continued... _****

* * *

Bibliography and Author's Notes: **

Yes, bibliography. Saitou Hajime was a real person, like some of the other characters in Rurouni Kenshin. As described earlier in the chapter, he really was one of the few in the Shinsengumi to survive the fall of the Bakufu. If you're interested, a fascinating English language resource is Mibu no Ookami (www. miburo. com / index.html) if the site is back up. Another is the Saitou Hajime Fact Sheet (www. shinsengumihq. com / saitouhajimebf. htm). What's particularly interesting about these sites is that they have photos of the actual Saitou, as well as information concerning his skills, record, and character.

A chronology of historical (as opposed to fictional) events is located here: www. dreamfeather. net / index. php? page shinsengumi. It seems to be fairly accurate.

Another resource is _The Shoguns's Most Dreaded Samurai Corps: The Bloody Legacy of the Shinsengumi_ by Romulus Hillsborough. (Tuttle Publishing, 2005, ISBN: 0804836272). I have the same complaint about this book as I did with his _Samurai Sketches_; while Hillsborough's writing is eminently readable, his books are a bit lacking in proper documentation. There are essentially no footnotes to lead the scholar to the juicy parts of his bibliography. On the other hand, given that this is the only book in English that focuses exclusively on the Shinsengumi that I've found, I suppose I should be grateful for even this much.

And, once again, thank you to the many people who have allowed me to drive them nuts via email and reviews. I appreciate your comments and suggestions more than I can express, even while I'm looking for cover from the oft-promised sharp objects headed my way.


	19. Chapter 19: Follow the Money

**Reflections: Chapter 19: Follow the Money**

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

**

* * *

_Author's Notes:_**

_If I have ever, no matter how inadvertently, shown scorn to those writers who get swamped by real life, sumimasen! I didn't mean it – please call off the revenge of the universe. To those people whom I owe emails to, please bop me over the head; I neglected to include my address book in my scheduled backup (Stored in different directory. Duh.) and my archived messages were corrupted during a computer crash a couple of months ago. But I'll proudly point to the fact that I didn't lose my fics, even though events have gobbled up all my free time and made this update come very late. I hope someone out there still remembers it…_

_Special thanks to Kelly, Lita, Gillie, and Gay for fending off my bad typing habits with a stick. (And my tendency to do strange things to the spellings of the characters' names.) And for giving encouragement and commentaries on the plot. This only turned out as well as it did because of your invaluable help._

* * *

"So, tell me, how many times does this make?" Carelessly, Yohji up-ended his beer bottle over his open mouth, draining the last of the foamy droplets clinging to the dark brown glass, then he slammed it down onto the Villa's battered kitchen table. The team's hacker stepped over the man's outstretched legs, slanting him a puzzled glance on his way to the refrigerator.

"Hm? How many times what, Yohji-kun?" Polite as ever, Omi ignored the ferocious scowl the older blond leveled at the beamed ceiling of the kitchen.

"This… You know, sitting around doing a mission post-mortem after having our asses handed to us by those bastards. This is what, the fifth time? Sixth?" Dragging himself erect, he snaked an arm past the smaller Weiss and grabbed another bottle from the open 'fridge. Omi frowned, but said nothing as Yohji twisted off its cap and drained nearly half. "It's getting to be a tradition, know what I mean? We scratch our heads over the evidence, and make excuses, while the truth is that we're clueless and pathetic." A particularly wild gesture sloshed beer, and Omi plucked the bottle from his lax fingers.

"Yohji-kun. I think you've had enough for now." The gurgle of the sink's drain was surprisingly loud in the stunned silence, and the teenager took advantage of the pause to glance warmly at Aya and Ken. "It's thanks to the two of you that things didn't turn out much worse for us. I've emailed the information about the rental vehicle to Manx-san at the blind drop, together with a coded message that the four of us are okay. Not the fastest way to communicate, but very safe. And right now, safe is good. Right, Ken?"

The unspoken request for support was met with silence as the wretched soccer player kept his eyes firmly fixed on the interlocking patterns of wet rings that his own bottle was making. He realized that he ought to speak up, to give Omi the support he was looking for, but somehow, thinking about it was all the farther it got.

_Why am I so miserable?_ Last night ought to have been a fantasy come true; granted, a fantasy he hadn't even known he was entertaining, but still… the sex had been fantastic, and more over, he'd felt like Aya _wanted_ to be there… had wanted Ken, psychoses and all. And being wanted just as he was, for himself, hadn't happened in a long time. _But I had to go and spoil it by bringing up all that stuff about that book._

Aya hadn't said one word about it, either. He'd come down to breakfast as calm and unruffled as he'd once held sway over the kitchen at the Koneko, neat and clean in a faded black sweater and old jeans. And if the man moved a little stiffly, and if the shadows under his eyes looked a bit more gray than usual, it wasn't apparent by the way he nodded a silent greeting to his colleagues, and set about fixing a bland meal of rice and tea. By contrast Yohji – rumpled, scowling, glaring from heavy-lidded eyes – gave the impression of being someone who was only up so early by virtue of never having gone to sleep. The green glare he slanted at Aya sent a chill down Ken's spine. Jealousy? No… it was almost as if the older man was the one who'd had the argument.

Almost as if he'd gotten dumped.

The idea made Ken pause.

How the Hell had Yohji gotten so involved? Did he really have such a stake in what went on between his teammates? It wasn't as if they were family Ken stopped dead, and backed up to think that one over again.

_Did_ Yohji see them as his family? Aside from the fact that it put a weird, almost incestuous spin on what had nearly happened between the two of them last night – which Ken _really_ didn't want to think too hard about – there was the whole question of 'when did that start?' The frowning ball player had to admit that he had no clue whatsoever. Until a few short days earlier, if somebody had asked, he'd have described the older man as a no-good, lazy pervert. And if the questioner was someone who knew Weiss' history, Ken might even have added a cutting comment about Yotan being the spineless, fickle, womanizing type – and not the kind of person that anyone in his right mind would rely on, especially not when it meant putting one's life on the line during a mission.

Not someone Ken would trust with his back. Not a friend.

Ken had never had too many real, close friends, and post-Kase, post landing in the shadowy nightmare world of the White Hunters, he would have said the list had narrowed down to just one – Omi, who knew all his dirty secrets and never said a word about them. But now, a growing warm spot in his belly suggested that the list had doubled in length. Silly gratitude made him shove his largely untouched beer toward the wire man, and get up to snatch the carton of eggs from the refrigerator, plucking the skillet from a confused Omi's hands just as the younger teen was about to wash it.

The plates of steaming food rattling onto the table seemed to jump-start a grin onto Yohji's face, and an answering one turned the clock back to seventeen-and-full-of-optimism-for-the-future for Ken. Shaking his head in resignation, Omi got up and put the sticky pan to soak in the sink, muttering, "Honestly…" but there was no rancor in the complaint. If anything, the hacker was pleased by the shift in mood. As soon as the other Weiss had mouths full so that they couldn't complain, Omi reached under the table for his backpack, and yanked out a pad of yellow scratch paper.

"Aw, Kid…" Yohji groaned. Apparently the scrawled notes meant something to him, and craning his neck, Ken recognized them as being in the former detective's handwriting. The man washed down a bite of toast, adding, "Does it have to be during breakfast?"

"Yes." Omi fought to stifle a snicker. "Who knows when I'll get another chance to hash this over while people's mouths are too full to effectively argue?" The paper rustled as the pad flopped onto the table, and Yohji rolled his eyes with a put-upon air of martyrdom. "Ken, Aya, we put a lot of work into this, the last couple of days, and I think we're finally on to something. To recap, based on the files Manx-san shared with us, Yohji and I believe that what we've stumbled into is a money-for-weapons scheme, with the artwork being sold forming the basis of the fund-raising segment. Basically, we have leads to a number of individuals who have been involved with revolutionary forces across Asia. To raise money, they're selling off stolen or missing artwork last seen in Eastern Europe, which matches the Communist backgrounds of most of the people Manx-san identified. Because Japan provides a lucrative market on neutral ground, they held the art auction here." With a small bow and flourish, he passed the verbal buck as well as the pad to the other blond, who sighed theatrically as he shoved his plate aside and took possession of the papers.

"Yeah, so… Based on their questions, the same people are interested in the Press Club. And not just because that was where Ayan was headed. They had some kind of involvement with that before spotting our oh-so-unobtrusive-and-easy-to-hide pal, here. There's gotta be something we're missing." Yohji muttered doggedly. Lighting up, he blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, watching it curl and dissipate in the conflicted air currents of the high ceilinged room. A real sigh followed the smoke. "Aya, tell me again. What was that Press Club mission about?"

Red brows drew together in sharp annoyance, but the irritable protest that the mission in question had never even begun failed to materialize. Instead, Aya repeated with some asperity, "Government secrets. Someone was selling intelligence, and Kritiker had a tip that the leak would be meeting with a buyer at the luncheon. I don't know any more than that."

Bewildered, Ken looked from red head, to elder blond, and back again. He coughed discretely, clearing his throat, and finally gave up and admitted, "O-o-okay… I don't see what selling stolen art has to do with buying information-"

"Government documents! That's it!" Omi interrupted. His excited squeal was lost as he thundered up the stairs, leaving the remaining Weiss to stare at one another in embarrassed consternation. " 'Follow the money,' Yohji-kun!" The gleeful shout drifted down to the first floor, distorted by distance and the oddly shaped spaces of the chalet.

Ken figured he could always plead mental distress, later, but he had to open his mouth and say, "What?"

Aya and Yohji were both nodding, but it was the swordsman who answered patiently, "Not weapons. Information, Ken. What good does a gun do if you don't know where to aim it? But it costs money to buy information… There's no way to bring such a large amount into the country, without leaving electronic footprints. So, they smuggled in the art instead. The profits were intended to bankroll the purchases negotiated at the Press Club luncheon… except that a certain Fujita who was not quite what he seemed to be, was present at the art auction, and also obtained an invitation to the luncheon. They must have thought that he knew more than he actually did."

"Yes, Aya-kun." The soft agreement was nearly inaudible as Omi's footsteps slowed, then halted, right in front of his teammate. Aya glanced up, scowling a little, until his sharp, violet gaze settled on the laptop that the boy held out to him. When the swordsman made no move to take it, their data expert gave an enormous sigh of resignation. With a subdued thump, he set down the laptop that he had retrieved from his room, spinning it around so that the other three Hunters could see. The disgust in his tone was clearly audible as he added, "I can't believe that we didn't make the connection sooner."

"Hey, kiddo…" Yohji clucked his tongue sympathetically, waving the cigarette held casually between his fingers like a baton. Slow trickles of smoke wreathed his head, drifting lazily. "Having people out to kill you all the time does kinda interfere with thinking stuff like this out, you know."

"I guess. I had been looking for indications that the funds have left Japan, headed for a military hot-spot. There hasn't been any, so they must still be holding the money. If the reason was to buy the stolen documents, then the question becomes 'did they succeed?' If not, the money is still here, somewhere, and perhaps we can trace it, when it does move." Pensive, he gnawed at the full curve of his lower lip, unconsciously imitating his Tanagawa cover persona. Yohji stared for a second, nearly going cross eyed, a faint pink flush blooming across his cheekbones, and Ken wondered What the heck is **that** all about…?

A pen flipped up into the air, and Omi's hand darted out to intercept it, ignoring the wire man's irritated growl. Using it, he drummed a rapid, thinker's tattoo on the edge of the table, his foot bouncing in time on the rung of his chair. "Okay, okay… So, discovering that Aya-kun was investigating both Press Club and auction pushed them into abducting him. When no answers were forthcoming, they let Aya-kun go in order to see who his contacts were. Which led to the attacks on us." He paused and glanced meaningfully at the other three. "If the money is still here, and if we can find the key to where that money is being held, I think we'll finally be able to take the fight to them."

Slowly, Yohji nodded. "Yeah, I'd say your theory holds water. Damned well, in fact. Congratulations, Omitchi, I think you've broken the case wide open." Blind-sided by the compliment, delicate features slowly turned to a bright fuchsia, and the smaller blond ducked his head in awkward pride.

"Thank you, but we're not done yet," he demurred. "It looks as if they were staying with the owners of the Hot Body at one time, but now that the association to the club has dried up, I have to admit that I've got no idea how to go about finding them again. We need to find the loose end that will unravel everything for us. _Then_ we'll be ready to take them on."

"We should let it go." Aya's quiet baritone snapped up all of their attention, and to judge by the way Omi's mouth worked soundlessly, opening and closing without a word, the pronouncement left at least some of them stunned like beached fish.

Yohji managed to pull himself together first, sputtering, " 'Let it go?' Are you _nuts_, Ayan? _Why_ would we back off now, when the kid is finally getting us close?"

Determined violet stared him down. "This is politics. I would have thought you had learned your lesson when Takatori Reiji staged his coup, and we were placed in the unenviable position of being maneuvered into dealing with him by _another_ of the breed. That we were used by one Takatori against another for political gain is something that should never have been allowed to occur in the first place."

"Yeah, politics suck, but damn, Aya- "

"But nothing! We have no right to judge others on the basis of their political leanings." Aya countered, pale features gone fierce. "It is the height of hypocrisy for creatures such as ourselves to dictate to them."

Ken surprised himself a bit when he opened his mouth and what came out was a chilly "Shut up, Aya." And more to the point, to judge by the stunned silence that descended over the gathered Weiss, he had just yanked the rug out from under everyone else's feet, too. But done was done, and recklessly he figured that since he'd gotten started, he might as well get the whole thing off his chest. "Okay, fine. We're all agreed that getting involved with the different sides in a political situation is not only stupid, it's moral suicide. You can't tell right from wrong, there is no evil in having a different point of view, yada, yada… And that's got fuck all to do with our current situation." Suddenly, irrationally, Ken felt fury building like the heat of a straight shot of vodka to the gut, or the adrenaline hit of discovering that the last opponent _wasn't_ down for the count. Roughly, he shoved his chair back from the table, ignoring the crash as it toppled, and shouted, "_They_ stopped being a gray area, Aya, when _they_ decided to start using murder, theft, extortion, and kidnapping to further their supposed _political_ goals. A Dark Beast is a Dark Beast, and _I will not allow them to get away with it!_"

Silence reigned in the villa's cramped kitchen, broken only by Ken's harsh panting where he rested his hands flat on the table, looming over the stunned red head. Drained by his outburst, the brunet straightened slowly, and said flatly, "If you're not with us on this, then get the fuck out." as he turned and walked quietly through the door.

_What the Hell just came over me?_ Ken wondered. His mouth was dry, and his palms clammy, as if he'd just broken up with the love of his life… _Shit._ he thought miserably, _I guess I just did._ His damned short fuse – shorter lately than ever – had screwed him over again. There was no way that Aya would let this slide, but neither was there any hope that the stubborn, narrow-minded, unyielding bastard would give in and do a one-eighty to see it from Ken's point of view. Frustrated, the brunet flung himself down on the sagging couch and lay moodily kicking at the leg of the coffee table, letting the continued conversation from the other room wash over him.

Omi's conciliatory, careful tone was easily identified, even if the content was too softly spoken to actually have meaning. And then there was Yohji's warm bark of laughter, riding up over top of the youngest Weiss's embarrassed protests. Of Aya's low baritone, there was no hint, which just fucking figured-  Ken pulled his train of thought up short, sharply reminding himself that he shouldn't have expected anything else; Aya was Aya… and in this case, that meant sticking to his guns and refusing to participate in what amounted to planning an ambush with deadly intent. Now that there was no way to pretend that they could get out of the mess without bloodshed, the wary swordsman would be distancing himself, and they'd have to go it alone.

Inexplicably tired beyond all endurance, Ken rolled onto his side, hiding his face into the couch's back cushions as he curled up. Maybe if he denied it all hard enough, it would all go away? He closed his eyes.

He must have been more than half asleep, because the first warning Ken got that anyone was there was when the edge of the couch dipped even farther, rolling the startled athlete down the gravity well and into a solid presence. The bitter smell of cigarettes lingering around the man's clothes identified it as Yohji, and the athlete growled warningly; he was not in the mood for another combination round of pep talk and flirtation. But when the minutes passed, and the expected lecture failed to materialize, Ken wriggled over onto his back, only to find that the tall blond wasn't paying attention at all.

Yohji was sitting slouched, elbows on his knees, hands dangling, empty, as he stared out the deck's plate glass windows as the mountainous view. Well… out the half that wasn't boarded up; Ken winced internally at the reminder of Aya's earlier outburst. The wire man's abstracted air was almost as out of character as Abyssinian smiling sweetly had been, and without thinking, the puzzled brunet gave an interrogative grunt, earning himself a wry twitch of lean shoulders.

"Sorry, kiddo. Just thinking." A crumpled cigarette pack appeared out of his shirt's breast pocket, and he exhaled a long stream of smoke before continuing. "For the record, I agree with you. No matter if Kritiker's played us for fools in the past, getting us mixed up with those damned Takatori and their personal agendas, right now, somebody needs to take a stand, and that would be us. It doesn't matter what their ideology is, if they slip off the straight and narrow, we take 'em down."

Bitterly, Ken couldn't resist snarling, "Too bad somebody else doesn't agree, too."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Yohji took another leisurely drag on his cigarette. "Dances With Swords here, he's having a bit of a moral dilemma. I think, deep down, he knows that you're right."

"So what? So he thinks I'm right. If he's still not willing to 'take a stand' against the bastards, it doesn't mean anything, anyway. He should just stay out of our way, and let us get on with it."

Yohji waved a hand airily, dismissing the complaint. "You're missing the point, sweet cheeks. Everybody agrees that what they're doing is wrong – but maybe we _should_ be re-thinking how we handle the fact. Just because Kritiker has trained us to think in terms of deadly force, doesn't mean that's always the right course to take. Maybe we ought to think about other solutions. Like Aya's."

Incredulous, Ken levered himself up onto his elbows. "You can't be serious! They kidnapped Aya. They've tried to kill _us_ not once, not twice, but what? – six times now? You can't seriously think we can offer them the Olive Branch of Peace, and have them quit taking shots at us."

"No, I don't." Yohji answered patiently. "This time, yeah, I think the only option is to terminate them. But that doesn't mean that there couldn't be other missions where we should take a second look at what Kritiker gives us, instead of blindly going along with their orders." He turned to sit sideways, one long, jeans clad leg drawn up against Ken's ribs, and the old, frivolous Balinese was gone. The new, grimly earnest one said, "I'm well aware that they aren't going to like it when we start thinking for ourselves, and that they may just get some other group to do the dirty work if we start making a stink, but it still bears thinking about. From Kritiker's point of view, the most important thing is mission success. They don't really care about the how, just the end results. And I think we ought to start looking at other methods for getting to the goal."

"Like not killing the bastards?"

"Like not killing, if the situation doesn't warrant it." the blond agreed soberly. "For one thing, I think we'll all be able to sleep a lot better at night, if we can look back at an assignment, and _know_ that we only went after the real scum, not some penny ante hood that mostly deserved a swift kick in the nuts."

"Yohji! What's the point? It's still not going to make things right with Aya, make him want to come back to us! We can't kill a guy only part way – it's like telling some girl she's only a little bit pregnant. If we have to take somebody out, there isn't going to be a half-way point that we can stop at- " It was the hard grip on his shoulders as much as the sudden shaking that cut off Ken's tirade. Yohji gave him one final, teeth rattling jolt, before getting up to pace the worn green carpet.

"The point is, if Aya sees we're doing our best, he might be able to live with the knowledge that sometimes we'll still have to finish some sick fuck off, and then he'll stay with us, and we'll still be together." Breathing hard, fists clenched, Yohji spun around and practically screamed, "Don't you get it? I just want us to stay a team!" From across the barrier of the low table, the brunet stared in stunned amazement.

"Ooookay…." Ken replied hesitantly. "Stay a team. Got it."

Shaking his head wearily, the older Hunter dropped back onto the couch with a spring-breaking thump. He threw the mangled remains of his cigarette at the ashtray, and sighed, "Sorry, Kenken. I didn't mean to take it out on you. I… just couldn't take the idea of us splitting up, not when we just finally started to get things right, you know? I it's been a long time, but… I'm finally waking up to the fact that I don't want to lose you guys."

_Waking up…_ Weirdly enough, there was a lot of sense to the playboy's babblings, and uncomfortably, Ken had to admit that except for the attempted kidnappings and death-threats, the past couple of weeks had been the best he could remember for a long time. They really _had_ been pulling together like a team, and it had felt pretty damned good.

Like family. And the sex hadn't exactly been a mark in the 'con' column, either.

They had been theorizing that it had been Kritiker's intent from the start that they bond. And now that it was beginning to happen, he could see the difference it made not only to their performance in the field, but for their personal sanity. Maybe he wouldn't go so far as to suspect that Manx or Persia had set the whole scenario up – the damage inflicted on Aya had been too real, for one, and people had _died_ when the office front had been compromised – but he could definitely see some Kritiker psychologist gleefully rubbing his hands and taking advantage of the situation when it presented itself. Glancing over at the once-again puffing on a cigarette assassin, he wondered if he ought to share that paranoid little thought, and decided against it. It wasn't as if it made a difference in the long run, anyway.

"So…" Ken began cautiously, "Do you think I ought to go tell Aya I'm sorry?"

"Hm? Nah… I'd let him stew on it." Yohji took a final drag and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. "You've hit him with a lot, already. First, your brilliant insight into the Himura / Saitou thing in the book, and second, the whole scene in the kitchen a little while ago. Add hot man-sex from last night onto that, and the boy's head has got to be spinning."

Sputtering, Ken began to choke and had to sit up on the couch while Yohji helpfully pounded on his back. The dangerously amused gleam in the wire man's eyes warned him that he could expect no quarter; not when it came to providing entertainment. Weakly, the younger Hunter whispered, "You heard us?"

"You bet. Brought tears to my eyes. Of course, it also made me want to whack Ayan over the head for being an idiot… Especially after I did the honorable thing and took myself out of the running for your affections." One lean hand came to rest on Ken's thigh, stroking suggestively up over the protective barrier of fabric. Yohji smirked and let it drop when a hot blush and an involuntary squirm toward the couch's armrest told him that he'd scored a direct hit. But Ken couldn't help the escape attempt; the touch and the words reminded him mortifyingly of begging his teammate to fuck him silly, while the rest of him had been simultaneously fixating on a certain red haired prick.

Still… if Yotan already knew about it, there was no reason to not ask him for advice.

Cautiously, Ken said, "About Aya…" The words stuck in his throat at the sight of the enormous, anticipatory grin. On second thought, this was _not_ one of his better ideas. "Um, forget it." Floundering out of the old couch's devouring embrace, he managed to get his feet onto the floor before Yohji's darting hand seized his upper arm.

"Hang on, Kenken. You have the look of a man with a whole lot of questions. Give – before the curiosity kills me." There was still amusement in the bright, green gaze, but no malice, and Ken found himself relaxing, settling back against the worn cushions and drawing his knees up to his chest. Snickering, his partner slouched down and let his head loll back. "So what's on your mind?"

"I…" His fingers picked nervously at a small frayed patch on the knee of his jeans, and Ken swallowed hard, mind involuntarily flashing to the obscenely ripped pants he'd worn for his stint undercover, and from there to Omi in the alley, and all sorts of other thoughts that he really didn't want to be having. But one kept rising to the fore in spite of the distractions, and he blurted it out before he could change his mind again. "I think I'm in love with Aya."

Silence.

After a long moment, Ken risked sneaking a glance at his companion, only to find Yohji staring at him, a tiny line creasing the skin between his eyebrows. Without the sunglasses, the clear green was painfully intense, and the suddenly embarrassed brunet squirmed. But before he could open his mouth to take the declaration back, lean callused fingers barred his lips. "Don't, Kenken. Don't start second guessing, or making excuses, or putting 'buts' on what you feel." At Ken's awkward, hesitant nod, the silencing hand fell away, and Yohji let his head hit the back of the couch with a thump. "Jesus. I didn't see that one coming, I can tell you. I guess the question is, what do you want to do about it? Aya is so screwed up, there's no guarantee he'll ever feel the same way."

"I know." The spot on the knee of his jean ripped with a small sound like a tired sigh. Miserable, he tucked his hands between calf and thigh to keep from making the hole any bigger. "And we fight constantly. I'd have thought love was all warm and floaty, but it's not. I guess the only good thing about this is that I can see how shallow what I had with Kase and Yuriko was in comparison… which is a plus. I kinda need the reminder sometimes to let that stuff go, and not… God. I'm babbling." His face fell forward, hitting his knees and muffling the whining complaint.

"Stupid kid." An arm snaked around Ken's shoulders, pulling him over so that he could hide against warm, tobacco-scented cotton. A quiver ran down the brunet's back, and he realized without surprise that he was crying silently into Yohji's embrace, tears slipping effortlessly from beneath tightly shut lids.

* * *

The living room was slipping into the gloom of evening by the time a cramp in Ken's calf forced him to slowly uncoil and gingerly stretch. Yohji's fingers were still threaded through the untidy length of dark brown, supporting the back of the younger man's skull, but the slow petting had ceased, suggesting that the other Hunter had also dozed off. But a sudden twitch down the length of the skinny body, and Yohji was wide awake and alert again.

"Yo, Kenken. Feeling better?"

"Yeah." Oddly enough, he was. It looked like there was some truth to the idea that sometimes a good, therapeutic melt-down was just what the doctor ordered. Then again, he grimaced and massaged his leg, there was a lot to be said for doing it into his own pillows instead of a scrawny assassin with no padding to speak of. A muttered comment to that effect got him a playful cuff to the side of the head, and then the older man was putting him into a loose half-Nelson and hauling him in the direction of the brightly lit door to the kitchen.

Omi glanced up as they stumbled through the door – Yohji snickering like a hyena, and Ken growling – and went back to stirring a pot on the stove. A tiny thread of steam escaping from the rice cooker promised that there would be food soon, and Ken's stomach rumbled hopefully. The taller blond let him go with a small shove in the direction of a chopping board piled with onions and carrots, while the smaller called apologetically, 'Sorry, Ken-kun, but if you could cut those up, please? We're running low on supplies. All we've got left for fresh ingredients is root vegetables."

"Eh…" Ken rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. Was Omitchi trying to tell him something? That because it involved cutting, the chore went to the team member who preferred blades for work? Although, by that logic, Aya and his katana ought to get stuck with prep duty just as often. Maybe it had more to do with the fact that their tactician preferred to keep him away from the seasoning side of the cooking process; Ken's creations did tend to the 'hot' end of the spectrum. But the others weren't paying attention. Instead, Yohji was trying to reach over Omi's head and snitch a peek into the bubbling pot, while the teenager fended him off with a big spoon. The lanky ex-detective snatched up a spatula and struck an exaggerated fencing pose, yelling "En gard!" while their dinner's defender dissolved into giggles. Ken shook his head and picked up the cleaver.

In some ways, he supposed he'd always been aware that the pair tended to horse around when the rest of Weiss wasn't looking. Yohji had slipped easily into the role of irresponsible big brother as soon as he'd joined them, and it was only Ken's dislike of the man that had kept him from registering Omi's fondness on a conscious level any sooner. But now that he couldn't help but see it, the closeness just left an ache in the pit of his stomach… one that said 'that could be you and Aya, if you hadn't screwed things up so bad by yelling at him.' Except that it wouldn't be, because Aya didn't do stuff like that. A memory of Aya's broad, relieved smile ambushed him, and Ken groaned, because in some alternate dimension where he wasn't a killer, there probably was a Fujimiya Ran who hadn't sold his soul for revenge, who did laugh out loud, and do stupid things like duel with kitchen utensils.

Of course, that version of Aya wouldn't ever have met Ken, so the whole exercise was moot, anyway.

Appearing at Ken's elbow, Omi startled the athlete into almost adding his thumb to the pile of cut-up carrots. The small hand darted in, deflecting the descending knife with an exasperated huff. "Ken-kun," he said severely, "No accidents. I am not driving you to the emergency room."

"Yes, Omi." he replied meekly. The unspoken 'like last time' did its job, and he concentrated on only chopping what he was supposed to.

"Could you go see if Aya wants to come down? He really should eat something since he's still recuperating."

"But…"

"I'll finish this. I know you hate doing onions, anyway." Persistent fingers had the cleaver's handle out of Ken's grasp before he could say anything else, and then equally implacable hands were planted in the middle of his back, shoving him out the door and in the direction of the stairs.

"I don't think this is a good idea, right now!" the brunet protested helplessly. No one was listening. Defeated, Ken turned his plodding steps toward the stairs, and Aya. "Sheesh." he muttered under his breath. Just because he'd been mooning about how there was only three of the four that made up Weiss on hand didn't mean that he wanted to go beard the lion in its den. Damning his best friend for meddling, Ken had no choice but to go up.

There were no lights on anywhere, leaving the upper floor dark and empty feeling. For a second, the athlete hesitated, shifting his weight from one stocking foot to the other, entertaining the idea that there was no one there at all, that Aya had somehow slipped away and left them. But it wasn't as if he could go back downstairs and face Omi without checking to be sure. Ken shook himself all over and, mind made up, marched toward the half-closed door to his teammate's room.

Only to stop dead on the threshold.

_Quit being such a chicken._ Ken told himself firmly. If Aya was still mad, what was the worst he could do, anyhow? Scream 'shi ne' and chase him with a drawn sword? The man had sworn off killing, had held back even in a pitched fight against people who were trying to slaughter _them_, so it wasn't likely that he'd do anything lasting… right? Gently, the younger Hunter nudged the door the rest of the way open, and peered in past the jamb.

The bedroom was marginally brighter than the hall, thanks to the rectangle of the skylight overhead. It wasn't difficult at all to make out the shape of a person, loosely curled on his side under the fluffy bulk of a comforter. Ken crept closer to the bed, ready to bolt at the first sign of hostility, but there was none. Just the rusty darkness of fly-away strands of hair against the white pillowcase. The rest of the man was buried under the covers, invisible to the eye, and ridiculously, the first thing that came to mind was being very small, and hiding from Sister Mary-Margaret, believing that if he couldn't see her, then she couldn't see him – despite the fact that there had been a tell-tale lump under what should have been absolutely flat, taut bedding. The memory brought an involuntary smile to Ken's face, and completely without thought of consequences, he reached out and smoothed the short strands.

And, of course, Aya noticed. It would have been silly to think that an assassin _wouldn't_. But all the realization did was to make the athlete wish he could kick himself as a slim, pale hand pushed back the shroud of blankets.

In the dim light, Aya's eyes were the color of old bruises, an effect that extended to the exhausted shadows beneath them. Tensing, Ken more than half expected to be summarily ordered to get the Hell out, but instead, the other man shifted over and held open the all-enveloping quilt in silent invitation. Mouth dry, the former soccer player stared, then hastily shucked off tee-shirt and jeans, and crawled carefully into the fabric cave. Before he was even settled all the way, a hard muscled arm snaked around his middle, tucking him close against the redhead's bare chest. Hot from being under the comforter, the skin was a crazy quilt of textures: smooth and unblemished side by side with the thin, hard lines of old scars, and the swollen puffiness of the new. That, more than the steady beating of a heart against his cheek finally convinced Ken that he was neither hallucinating, nor simply dreaming, and allowed him to relax in tiny, twitching stages.

There was absolutely no explanation that made sense as to how they could go from being lovers the night before, to quarreling bitterly about Aya's whacked-out obsession with the Meiji era assassin, Himura Kenshin, to arguing _again_ during their post-breakfast strategizing session, to finally snuggling together in _Aya's_ bed at dinner time. None. Absolutely none.

Unless the entire world had gone insane.

Then again, if the lingering brush of lips against his forehead was any indicator, Ken was willing to sign on that sanity was seriously over-rated. Typical to the response of any male over the age of puberty, the light, dry touch sent an instant shiver of anticipation straight to the brunet's crotch, and it was a trial to resist the temptation to do a Hell of a lot more than to simply lie there. But at the same time, he couldn't get their last bedroom brawl out of his mind, or the hurt fury in Aya's repudiation. The whole business of honor, and atonement, was real to him.

Nuts or not, Aya _believed_.

The butterfly-light caresses had reached Ken's closed eyelids, and he shivered in the self-imposed darkness inside them. Hoarsely, he whispered, "Aya, I'm sorry. Earlier, I said some "

"Shh." The tip of a hungry tongue grazed the upper curve of the brunet's cheekbone, and Ken felt a faint quivering radiating outward from just behind his belly button. "We're not discussing it any more."

_Not… discussing…_ So typical of the unsociable man. Yet, with the drugging sensations of wet velvet curling around the crest of the nearer of Ken's ears, and steady breathing ruffling the unkempt length of bitter chocolate hair, Ken would have gladly agreed to pretty much anything. Dimly, he supposed it was something in the way his head was wired; that his arms were tightening painfully around a slim waist, and everything that they had fought about was fading into insignificance. "Ah, Aya…" All that mattered was the ankle hooked around Ken's calf, tracing the contours developed first by playing soccer until he dropped, and later in his life by endless repetitions with weights and running until the memories blurred in the hum of endorphins.

"No more talk." The husky reply bypassed Ken's brain totally, following the concentrated, southward rush of blood. The receding tide of mental acuity was leaving all the good reasons why this was a stupid thing to do beached, high and dry, along with all the other flotsam of too much stress and too many bad situations.

Of course, it didn't hurt that a certain long, elegant body had rolled onto its back, tugging the distracted athlete up on top, aligning them perfectly. Ken groaned, tucking his face into the hollow between the swordsman's shoulder and neck, inhaling the sharpness of sweat and the lingering medicinal smells while he tried, desperately, to not give in to temptation.

It didn't _feel_ like the redhead was deliberately trying to keep him from talking about _that_ – more like Aya was in a mood where he didn't want to be thinking, himself. Ken supposed vaguely that he should be pissed that he was being used, but everything felt so good. And not just in the hentai sense, either. The slow care of each touch, the way the slender body under him writhed just enough to plant the idea that Ken ought to do it back, that the attention would be welcomed, was almost too heartbreakingly sweet. Even the slightly cooler, harder brush of the finger-splint across the fabric of his briefs was nice. Human. And that little contact was probably the thing that made the younger man drag Aya's mouth back up from its slow and thorough tasting of his ear, made Ken hold the pale, delicate face still between his two hands, and in the end, made him kiss away every doubt and worry.

Ken reflected that breathing was pretty overrated, too, just like sanity was, when he reluctantly broke the lip lock, and lean his forehead down against Aya's while they both panted quietly. "Aya… Is this… what… you want?"

"Yes." Barely audible, the affirmation was followed up by another kiss, this one a lot fiercer and demanding. Saying it was like giving up on self-restraint. Unerring in its aim, the hand slid between their bodies, cool against the straining of Ken's erection inside his shorts. When Ken opened his mouth – he couldn't for the life of him tell if he meant to reply, or to just moan – a tongue curled around his, saying _shut up_ more effectively than words.

So turned on that he was shaking in tiny fits and degrees, Ken's finger tips dug helplessly into Aya's shoulders, unable to string enough coherent thoughts together to remember to avoid the sore spots. But it didn't seem to matter. The ankle that had started out rubbing the back of Ken's calf hooked itself higher, opening muscular thighs so that Ken settled abruptly down between them. Positioned like that, there was no hiding the fact that the arousal was working both ways; heat radiated from two hard lengths sandwiched against their bellies. He squirmed helplessly, wanting to get to where he could move more, conflicting with the awareness that it would mean giving up the _oh, God!_ sensations of being right where he already was.

Aya's hand managing to grab both of them at the same time, and then squeezing their cocks together was the final straw. Ken got out a sharp grunt of astonished protest before he was coming in hard spurts, soaking the cotton briefs and spilling over the hand joining them. The heat and wet wrenched the noiselessly gasping redhead along after him.

Coming down, long minutes later, Ken was still shaking with the aftershocks and only just beginning to drowsily notice how gooey he felt, and also how unstrung and loose Aya was under him. Ken nuzzled the sweaty hollow between the swordsman's jaw and plastered-down hair, murmuring, "Hey…"

"Mm?" The vague noise vibrated against the brunet's cheek, and Ken had to smother an inappropriate urge to snicker. His human-sized pillow didn't sound at all inclined to move, but on the other hand, if they didn't, Omi would probably come drag them down to dinner. Or, worse, get Yohji to do it, and in the older blond's mood, that could be a dangerous option. But when he made to roll off, Aya's arms tightened reflexively, refusing to allow him to leave, and only resumed lazily stroking the length of his back when Ken subsided.

"C'mon… we need to get up. Dinner'll be ready soon."

"No."

The flat monosyllable left no room for discussion – meaning that it equated to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Instantly, Ken bridled and snapped, "Aya, up."

This time, his partner-slash-lover ignored the command completely, clever touch devoting itself to derailing Ken's train of thought utterly. But in the post-sex lassitude, without the distraction of raging hormones, the younger Hunter had enough presence of mind to identify the ploy for what it was, and to fight back with a pained grunt as inadvertent pressure on a combined burn/bruise on his shoulders served as a wake up call. "Hey, quit it, would you? I'm trying to talk to you- "

Swinging a katana sometimes for hours a day in practice or actual battle had given the redhead wrists corded with steel – and more than enough strength even after everything that had happened to pull the protesting athlete down into another consuming kiss. It wasn't until their slow, squirming dance reached the point where his sensitized body couldn't stand any more, and Ken had to break off to lean, gasping, against Aya's bare skin that he could get back to the incomplete sentence. The tight pain in his chest made Ken choke out, "A- Aya, I'm sorry for the stuff I said, about that Meiji Ishin guy, Himura Kenshin. I… just don't want to see history repeating itself. I don't want you to push us… me… away."

"Ken…" Even troubled, the soft sigh of his name felt like a caress, and distracted by it, Ken had trouble remembering _why_ he needed so badly to talk this all out. He was almost ready to agree when the rich voice whispered, "I don't want to discuss this right now."

That did it.

"Then when!" Sitting up astride Aya's waist, the comforter slithering toward the floor, the miserable brunet burst out, "When it's too late? When you're _gone_? You can't do this, Aya. Listen to me – I know I'm always just the guy who sees everything in black and white, as simple as… whatever… but this time, _I'm_ telling _you_ – dealing with the crap around us is not as easy as just saying 'I will not kill.' What are you going to do when you have _no choice_ but to act to save the innocents? To protect what you love? I- I'm not enough. I can't fix what's wrong _for_ you. You have to let people help you."

Conflicting emotions darkened the redhead's stormy eyes. Unable to face having the whole discussion one more time, Ken flung himself off the man, nearly tumbling onto his ass on the smooth plank floor. He snatched up his shirt and jeans, adding stiffly, "Fine. We're not talking. Omi's expecting you downstairs for dinner."

The slam of the bedroom door put a final punctuation mark at the end of the conversation.

* * *

Another tense meal. Another round of not talking, of Ken avoiding looking at his companions… or, to be more precise, avoiding the memory of slender fingers gripping his cock like a sword's hilt, of grinding against the sweet contrasts of hard and soft, baby-smooth skin and wiry, blood red curls Ken felt like slamming his head repeatedly into the scuffed maple of the table until his body quit throwing the hopeful images out where they could snare him.

Why the fuck had he opened his mouth and thrown the whole stupid mess into Aya's face twice in one day? Was he stupid? Or just terminally masochistic?

The worst part was, Ken really didn't know. Oh, he was getting resigned to blurting out inappropriate crap; the soccer player had begun facing up to the volatility of his temper a while ago. It was like being possessed by a demon, or what Sister Mary-Margaret had once referred to as 'foot in mouth disease.' In Ken's place, he'd been opening, inserting, and chomping on his leg up to his freaking _knee_ Not a one of them had responded to Ken's suggestion that Aya get out if he couldn't handle what they would have to do. The shorter Hunter couldn't decide if _that_ was a good thing, or not.

And Omi, bless the little pain in the ass, was resuming their earlier discussion as if the whole argument about whether bad politics was a punishable offense had never taken place.

An abstract jumble on the laptop's screen was supposed to be a roadmap to their conclusions on the case. The thing was, it was debatable whether anyone beside the little genius understood his cause/effect flowchart; the boxes, interconnected with looping lines and microscopic print supposedly covered the same thing as his verbal meanderings were just giving Ken a headache. After a few minutes, he'd muttered his excuses and left the others alone, retreating to his room and some mind-numbing exercise, the only really good way he knew of to _not think_. Okay, scratch that. Sex did a dandy job of reducing him to gibbering, drooling idiocy, too. But it came with so much post-orgasm baggage that Ken figured he'd rather not, and just say that he did. Celibacy was looking better all the time. An odd sound from downstairs brought Ken up short in the middle of some careful stretches, head tilted to one side as he struggled to make sense of it. Only when it was repeated did he finally recognize it as the muffled peal of a doorbell.

_We have a doorbell…?_

Frowning, he ran for the stairs, nearly colliding with Omi who burst from his own bedroom. "Sorry, Ken-kun!" the smaller blond yelled over his shoulder, already half-way to the living room below. Other voices, vaguely identifiable as Yohji's and Aya's, plus a higher pitched one that had to belong to a woman, drifted from the direction of the kitchen, only to be over-ridden by Omi's excited greeting. The strange tones didn't sound like Manx's, yet who else would come all the way up the side of a mountain to see them? Who else even knew where they were? But she had to be a friendly to have gotten in as far as the kitchen; otherwise his teammates wouldn't be chatting with whoever she was, they'd be trying to neutralize the threat. So… what the Hell was going on?

Ken reached the kitchen door in time to meet four expectant faces: his partners and…. Birman. The slender woman had broken with tradition and dressed in practical gear - a short, rusty brown leather jacket over a plain, navy blue, button-down shirt, jeans, and laced-up hiking boots – but it was unmistakably her, from the sleek, short-cropped, blue-black hair, to the faintly hostile expression on her oval face. She paused in the act of pulling a thick folder from her backpack to give Ken an abrupt nod of welcome, but still spoke as if he weren't an interruption, "- you have to realize that not only is what we're doing counter to Kritiker's protocols, but it goes against my own better judgment. I'm only doing this because you, Bombay, made a strong case for its necessity."

"I know, Birman-san." their tactician said patiently, "But Aya-kun and I have discussed this at some length. The key to what's happening has to be the stolen documents case. Maybe if we go through the mission parameters, and the final report, we'll be able to spot something that will help us."

"Huh." The handler shot the younger of the blonds a pointed look, but refrained from commenting further. If anything, her sour expression suggested that she was unhappy, but resigned. She pulled out one of the plain, ladder backed chairs, seated herself at the maple table, and flipped open the folder. Her level voice gave no hint either of her mental state, but Ken found himself wincing anyway; Birman was not likely to forget about this. Ever. Over her head, he silently expressed that opinion to Omi, who gave a faint nod and took a seat beside the older agent. Yohji dropped into a chair opposite, stretching his long legs out in the cramped space, but Aya - and Ken - remained standing.

"Suspicion that documents were being stolen and smuggled to outside forces first surfaced not long after the end of Takatori Reiji's coup. Initially, we had no idea what was involved, and no man-power to pursue the matter, but beginning three months ago, stopping the flow of information became a priority. When word began circulating that certain highly-classified reports were on the market, our intelligence division focused on finding out who the potential buyers were, and then when the sale was to be made. That led us to the recent Press Club luncheon. This man- " The woman slid a glossy photo of a middle aged, balding man from the packet in front of her, and laid the picture in the exact middle of the table. "- who had been our contact, turned up dead shortly after passing us the date of the meeting, before he was able to provide us with any particulars. His death left us in an awkward position, with no way to proceed any further. And that's when we decided to offer the mission to you, Abyssinian. Your cover persona, Fujita, was already well established. It was felt that your attendance at the luncheon, while a little out of the ordinary for who you were pretending to be, was not unreasonable."

Nodding, Aya finally pulled out the last vacant chair and seated himself. "I saw nothing wrong with your logic at the time. Many of the journalists know Fujita as a free-lance. While not a member of the press corps, his presence would not have excited comment."

It was a bit unnerving to hear the steady baritone refer to himself as if Aya and Fujita were separate entities, but not really surprising. Ken was used to seeing the mental gymnastics that allowed the redhead to function as a florist during the day, and as Abyssinian at night. It was just spooky, and fleetingly, the athlete wondered if the person that Aya had been before his parents' murders and his sister's coma formed yet another, distinct personality. But worrying about that was a luxury for another day; right at the moment, Yohji had filched the picture of Kritiker's dead snitch, and was addressing their handler. "So. Aya was going to go in. Alone?"

"No. Given how much was riding on the outcome, we determined that a two-man team would be best. Fujita-san was going in through the front door, so to speak, while another agent was in place as a member of the convention center's wait-staff. He had access to the non-public areas, and was going to monitor those, while Abyssinian took care of the attendees." she said slowly. A grimace twitched her mouth, and Birman met Aya's puzzled gaze with difficulty. "You would have found it out in the briefing packet, had your kidnapping not occurred, so this is hardly a secret…. Your partner for the mission was Knight, from the Crashers unit."

Crashers? Aya had been a part of a group by that name, and the association couldn't have ended happily, if the subtle warning in the woman's tone was any indicator. There was a sense of an entirely different conversation taking place behind the audible one. What little color the pale redhead normally possessed drained away entirely, and for a second, Ken thought he was going to have to jump to keep the swordsman from fainting dead to the floor. Then Aya shook himself, demanding angrily, "Yuuchi? Why? Why would he- "

Birman snapped flatly, "Like you, Knight takes solo missions without the rest of his team. Despite not having worked together in over two years, it was felt that the chemistry that had allowed the two of you to partner so effectively would still apply. Should there be a leak, that time apart would also make it unlikely that the two of you would be connected in anyone's minds. And lastly, he volunteered."

"But- "

"But nothing. There was a good chance that this was our last opportunity to catch the bastards betraying our country's security in the act. We needed the best. Your personal history with Crashers was immaterial." Controlled fury said clearly You're out of line, Abyssinian. Back off! as her dark eyes flashed. Taking a deep breath, the woman continued more softly. "Unfortunately, without Fujita, the mission was pretty much of a wash. We didn't dare try to introduce an unknown in your place at such short notice, which left Knight alone. Aborting the mission and pulling out was discussed, but we also didn't want to draw attention to Knight's presence after he had spent nearly two months getting into place. We decided that some chance of catching them in the act was better than none at all, but in the end, we never caught sight of the buyers. All we were able to recover was a small packet of sample documents, which we suspect were intended to either establish the authenticity of the items for sale, or as a gesture of good faith."

"Which means that the seller still has the goods, and the buyers still have the cash, just like Omitchi figured." The lazy drawl drew the attention of the other occupants of the kitchen to Yohji. The former detective leisurely drew the cigarette pack from the breast pocket of his tailored white shirt, shook out the last stick, and placed it between his lips. Only when the empty package was crumpled and tossed on the table, and a veil of blue smoke drifting in front of his intent green eyes did he look around the waiting circle. "Think about it, people. They're not going to give up so easily. They still want those classified documents, and now that they feel comfortable that we're not a threat, they'll come out to get them. And that will be our chance to cut the bastards off at the knees."

A fierce joy blossomed in Ken's chest, making it uncomfortably tight for a minute. Aya's qualms be damned; the enemy needed to be dealt with. And soon. It was past time for Weiss to take the offensive, to carry the fight to their quarry before they could grind the Hunters down under the constant weight of pursuit. He exchanged a grin with Yohji, the two of them agreeing in complete harmony for once.

Their handler nodded as if she'd expected both the conclusion, and the agreement. "It will definitely be a plus to get these people off the playing field, not only in terms of personal safety for the four of you, but also by removing the constraints on Kritiker, as a whole. They're more than just a nuisance, gentlemen." Photographs of scorched ruins joined that of the organization's informant on the table. "Tanagawa is a mess." Birman added succinctly. "The arson squad found that woman's body in the wreckage. They haven't released any information "pending notification of next of kin," but it looks like the real issue is that they can't make up their mind if it's a case of a disgruntled former employee deliberately setting the fire for revenge, or an insurance scam that went bad. That we're having to keep our heads down like a flock of nervous ostriches isn't helping; we simply don't know enough to guess at the methods used. You reported explosions, correct?" Her sharp eyes ranged around the table

Omi fielded the question, nodding emphatically. "Yes. I put everything I was able to deduce about the size and locations in my report. The odds are that they used straight C4, and off-the-shelf detonators, but as those are controlled materials in Japan, Kritiker may be able to learn something from it." A floppy disc skidded across the wooden surface, coming to rest next to Birman's hand. Nodding, she picked it up and tucked it inside her jacket as she got to her feet.

"The only good news is that it doesn't appear that any of you were connected to the fire." She slanted a hard glance at Omi, and sent the folder that she had brought across the table in exchange. "Bombay, I assume that I don't have to tell you this, but that file on the stolen documents is _very_ classified. If you decide to pull another stunt like your little undercover mission, do me a favor, and burn it first. And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll let myself out and get off this God-forsaken mountain. If you need anything further, use the blind email drop, and either Manx or I will be in touch. Got that?"

At the unspoken admonition that they not trust a contact by anyone else, Ken shivered. They – all of them, even Aya – nodded their understanding of the order. Omi bounced out of his chair and walked the grim-faced woman to the back door. Only when the rumble of her SUV's engine engaging disturbed the silence did he turn around and somberly address the rest of the team, "I hope we get lucky. And soon. Or it's going to be a long, cold summer stuck up here."

* * *

"So much information… and nothing makes any sense!" Frustrated, Omi beat his forehead on his folded arms before collapsing with a moan onto the scrubbed planks of their kitchen table. Yohji fished crumpled photocopies out from under his elbow and smoothed the worst of the wrinkles.

"Maybe it'll make more sense in the morning." he offered sympathetically. The neatened up stack of paper went back into the folder, and the folder was tossed onto the middle of the table as the hacker whined and pounded a fist half-heartedly. The display didn't seem to bother the older assassin, who absently patted a thin shoulder and went to work gathering up the tattered pages of his scratch pad as if sitting up until 3:00 a.m. beating on the same hopeless series of questions was nothing new.

And maybe it wasn't. Ken rubbed the back of his hand across gritty eyes and reflected that he had no idea exactly what the P.I.'s life had been like in the Before Weiss era. For all he knew, Yohji's occasional stories about fist fights and rescuing damsels had been the exceptions rather than the rule, and the man had really spent all his time sifting through documents or sitting on boring stake-outs. Certainly, he had attacked Birman's file with the knowing sigh and head-shake of someone who had been through it all before. Flashing a grin at their youngest teammate, Yohji chortled, "Not that I plan to be up at oh-God-awful to help you, mind you. But it's the thought that counts." Omi snarled a muffled obscenity, but failed to summon the energy to get up.

"We're _soooo_ close, Yohji-kun. Just one more piece of data, one more piece of the puzzle, and it'll fall into place. I just know it will." Blearily, he turned his head so that messy blond hair fell over his forearm, past where his cheek was pillowed, making him look far too childish to have stayed up half the night combing through records without success. A yawn drowned out another protest, turning it into a mumble of "…so close…"

The Kritiker agent's visit had left them all feeling determined and focused, but as the hours waned, it had turned to discouragement. Following the money was all well and good – if there was a trail _to_ follow. They'd been through every permutation that they could think of – reasonable and un – and… Nothing. More than once, Ken had noticed Aya opening his mouth as if to say something, but each time the redhead had subsided silently, doggedly going through the stack of printouts and copies with the rest of them, sad eyes shying away from the photos of the club where Honey had died.

But this time, he cleared his throat and said softly, "I… might have something."

Ken frowned. He'd never seen Aya really at a loss before. Even at the worst of times, the elegant man held true to his breeding and up-bringing, acting as self-possessed as a member of the Imperial family. But… no, there it was again; something was bugging the guy. The swordsman shifted uncomfortably, pale lips thinning into an almost invisible line of unhappiness, and the premonition of _bad things coming_ got even stronger. Then Aya took a deep breath and opened his mouth. "Omi. I… I've been running the bank records search program on the desktop computer in the den."

Puzzled, wide blue eyes blinked at Aya, and a soft, alto voice said, "A search…? On what? I mean, against what? You have to have very specific information to get anywhere with that thing." The hacker, normally the most astute of them when it came to sifting through data, stared in tired confusion, but Ken knew exactly what Aya was referring to.

The credit card search.

Just before they'd headed out the last time, him and Omi to Tanagawa, Yohji and Aya to prod the cops, he'd seen the old tower computer, hard at work on something, and he'd managed to convince himself that it was okay, that it would be better to let Aya continue with whatever he was up to. He'd managed to avoid throwing it in the redhead's face in front of the others, then forgotten it all in the frenzy of worry over Omitchi and Yotan's safety. And now, here it was coming out on its own. Yohji's frown already said that the playboy had a bad feeling about where the conversation was going, and Ken just knew that when the man found out that Aya had been sitting on a potentially vital piece of information, there would be Hell to pay.

The worst part of it was that the sinking feeling in his gut said that Ken really should have known better, too.

Why, oh _why_, hadn't one of them – Aya _or_ him – let the others in on the secret right away? Why had Ken been so stupid as to think that it would be okay to let the anti-social redhead deal with it on his own? How could he not have realized that if they were to have any hope of succeeding, they needed to pool _all_ their resources?

It was like none of the shouting over the past weeks had even happened, for all the difference it had made. There was the same, weird feeling to the whole situation, just like what Yohji had complained about earlier. How many times were they going to go through the same cycle of clashing with the enemy, and then retreating to lick their wounds and try to figure out what was going on? Add to that the déjà vu feeling of watching Aya admit to withholding information _again_. Except this time, the picture was distorted, like watching a reflection in a bowl of agitated water; the images kept dancing and breaking apart.

Aya was displaying neither the urge to claw his way clear and run, nor the frantic denial of last time. Too stubborn, or too oblivious to acknowledge the trouble headed his way, the slim shoulders were as straight as a soldier's during a parade ground review. Aya looked Omi in the eye, and said the words that damned him irretrievably. "I had a partial credit card number."

"What?" Bewildered, a small frown clouded the teenager's face, and Ken nearly groaned out loud. Trusting to a fault, Omi was having a hard time catching on, but the thunderous growl coming from the senior of the blonds meant that Yohji had no trouble at all.

"You son of a bitch," he hissed, pushing back slowly from the table. "And you were planning on telling us all this _when_? After the next time those sick fucks try to flambé us, maybe? Or maybe once they take a crack at Ken? Christ knows that if anyone deserves it, it's him. After all, he's just the sorry bastard who's in l- "

"Yohji! Shut up!" Desperate, Ken caught at the advancing assassin's arm, swinging the taller form forcibly off course and into the corner of the kitchen counter. When the senior Hunter's fist automatically cocked back, Ken hung on grimly earning himself a baleful glare from the man towering over him where he sat.

If only Aya had shut up, as well.

"I am telling you – and breaking with protocol to do it." The way the red haired assassin's jaw snapped shut on the final word told Ken that Aya did believe that he was being entirely reasonable, that he had weighed the necessity for secrecy, and deemed the admission to now be reasonable, where as in the past it had not been. The soccer player rose to his feet slowly, stepping into the line of fire and drawing the hot gaze of two irate sets of eyes to himself.

"You gotta listen to me. Beating the crap out of him, after what he's been through is _not_ going to make things better, Yotan. If you gotta hit something, then hit me, 'cause I saw the computer and I didn't say anything, either." The vibrating tension in the long, ropy muscles spasmed, and the shorter man swallowed hard. Yohji had grown up on some very mean streets indeed, and had learned to fight with a fanaticism that was almost equal to how Ken viewed playing soccer. If the blond decided to get serious, there was a good chance that he could clean the floor with Ken's broken body, and that there wouldn't be a Hell of a lot that the ball player could do to stop him. "Look, it's not like it matters, anyway." he said wearily. "We didn't know that the information was useful until a few hours ago, and even if we had, there's no guarantee that Birman would have given anything more to us, anyway. You both know that, so just let it go already."

Instead, Yohji simply shook off the restraining arm, and snarled, "You'd better hope this information isn't a day late and a dollar short, Fujimiya, because if it turns out that it could have kept Honey alive, or kept Omitchi from getting beat up, your ass is grass." Shoving roughly past the frozen redhead, Yohji stormed up the stairs, and distantly, they felt the slam of a door shake the house. Trembling, Ken sagged back into his chair. That mulish look would have been amusingly similar to the sour one on Aya's pale features - if it had been a laughing matter. A suddenly exhausted Ken raked a hand through his hair, wincing at the tangles in the too long strands. "God," he muttered. "You two are such idiots."

Warm arms circled him tightly from behind, and it was Omi's voice that whispered, "Ken-nii-chan…" the way he used to, back when they were both so much younger, and the ex-goalie had been sunk in grief for his own lost future. Funny, but he hadn't really been dreaming about soccer plays, or the roar of the excited crowd in a long time… and Ken couldn't decide if that was a good thing, or bad… But the thin body pressed to his back was reassuringly alive.

Being alive was good.

Shuddering, the brunet's breath gusted out of his lungs. Holding on to the past never did any good, and sometimes he didn't understand the way both of his older partners could cling to old pain and older regrets. Sure, he'd never completely let go of the wistfulness that came with seeing his old team playing on TV – his soccer mates, rather than those he now lived every day with – but it was the here and now that was the most important, and the conflicted emotions that tore at his insides whenever he got too close to the three other young men.

Soccer was just a game. They were an increasingly important part of his life.

After the fact, Ken could now see that rescuing Aya from the hospital marked a watershed between the mindless, killing rages that had slowly been consuming him, turning him away from both his companions and the beliefs and feelings that had made his existence bearable, and where he now stood with some of his self-respect regained. Incoherently, his head swung slowly from side to side.

_What if this time they didn't…?_

"Ken-kun?" A pleading note in the husky-soft voice called the young man back to himself. Ken groaned aloud, fisting a handful of sweaty, bitter chocolate brown bangs, and giving them a harsh tug. He squeezed his own eyes shut, intent on blocking out the varying expressions of worry. But before the trembling athlete could completely succeed in slamming shut the opened window to his soul, he sucked in a deep breath, shoving the looming horror away. He could deal with it later, when it wasn't their lives that were at stake. Hoarsely, he whispered, " 'm all right, Omi. Let's get this over with."

Omi cleared his throat, breaking the ominous silence. "Er… Well, I guess you'd better tell me about the credit card number, Aya-kun. How many digits have you got, and where did you get it from?" Bless him, the hacker simply opened another window on his laptop, preparing to resume typing, then got up to pour fresh cups of tea as if the air wasn't too brittle and thick to breathe.

Slowly, Aya slid back a chair and joined them at the table. The inflectionless voice shook a little as he said, "The basement. Where I was kept. I found a scrap of paper in some trash. It wasn't supposed to be there… I'm pretty sure of that. After a while, I realized that it was part of a bill of lading… but there was no company name, just a list of packing crates… and the piece of a credit card number."

A sturdy ceramic mug filled with steaming liquid appeared on the table in front of the stunned redhead, and Omi asked softly, "What made you think it had anything to do with your kidnappers?"

"The crates… I recognized the descriptions from Birman's data concerning the art auction." Aya's voice was steadier as he cradled the cup between his hands as if he were chilled to the bone. Long, violet eyes flickered up to look at the thin boy standing at his side, and away. "Kritiker didn't pick up on the shipment until after it was delivered to the hotel, so I knew that was a dead end, but… I thought… maybe the card number…" The low whisper died away entirely, and Omi scrubbed both hands wearily over his face.

"Okay. No promises, but maybe if I put it together with the car rental company Yohji-kun and I picked up on, the hotel the auction was held at, the catering company whose truck they used to abduct you, the cell phone records from the disaster with the police, Birman-san's data from the failed buy… maybe I can do something with it." His childishly small hand settled onto the swordsman's tensed shoulder, and shook it lightly. "For what it's worth, I don't think telling us sooner would have made a difference. Honey-san dying, they're to blame for that, not you. Now, go get some rest. I'll call you if I have any questions."

Stiffly, Aya nodded and stumbled to his feet. Like a sleepwalker, he shambled slowly for the stairs, and his waiting bed. When Ken made to follow, Omi's quiet voice pulled him up short. "Ken-kun, is there anything else we should know about?"

Mutely, the athlete shook his head, and fled.

**

* * *

Author's Notes:**

In case you're curious: A "bill of lading" is a written receipt or contract, given by a carrier, showing a list of goods delivered to it for transportation. The straight bill of lading is a contract which provides for direct shipment to a consignee. The order bill of lading is negotiable; it enables a shipper to collect for a shipment before it reaches its destination (this is done by sending the original bill of lading with a draft drawn on the consignee through a bank). When the consignee receives the lading indicating that payment has been made, the lading will be surrendered to the carrier's agent, and the carrier. www. mmd. admin. state. mn. us /mn06008. htm

What Aya was researching on the computer when Ken spotted it in Chapter 12 was a torn fragment of one of these. In this instance, a credit card was used as a surety, rather than a bank draft – mostly because I figured that the routing numbers for a bank would be too easy to trace. My apologies for stretching the facts a tad in the interests of the plot.


	20. Chapter 20: Waiting Game

**Reflections**

**Chapter 20: Waiting Game **

_

* * *

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

**_Author's Notes:_**

_Yes, yes… I know this has been a long time coming. No, I haven't abandoned the story. If I believe my outline, I have four more chapters to go._

_Thanks for getting this one beaten into shape go to Kelly for spotting the most embarrassing typo (stir-flying) and for listening to my plot ranting; Gay for murdering excess commas and for fighting off the swarming hyphens; Teresa for oodles of suggestions (some pornographic, but hey, what are friends for?); and Lita, Shay, Gillian and Beysie for not letting me forget that I promised to write this monster. Encouragement is always a good thing. And thank you to the kind people who reviewed when I last posted. I hope you haven't given up on the story._

_And a quick comment on ratings before I shut up and get on with the chapter. I've never made any pretense that Reflections was a fluffy fic. people don't become assassins without it staining their souls, and yaoi is not everyone's cup of tea. While 20 is a comparatively kind and gentle chapter, the remainder of this story won't be. If you're an adult, you can make your own decisions, and if you're not, you shouldn't be here in the first place._

_But I do hope that you'll enjoy the journey._

_L.A. Mason_

_

* * *

_

_What a fucked up mess…_

Ken was more than a little shocked to find Aya waiting, perched on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Without preamble, the drooping man said, "I'm sorry. I really fucked that up. Maybe… maybe… sometimes… you're right."

Maybe it was the shock of hearing his own thoughts echoed by someone who practically never showed human weakness, let alone apologized, but Ken felt his mouth dropping open. "Wha…" Halting just within the door, Ken forced himself to be silent, to let Aya speak on his own. And, still addressing the floor, the man continued softly without pausing for breath, mangling handfuls of short, fly-away hair as he did so. "I am so screwed up, Ken, and I don't know how to find my way back. When I woke up, back with all of you, I think I maybe _was_ Himura Kenshin, for a little while. I- it was so much easier, than what I'd been… and I couldn't let those guys catch me, keep asking those same damned questions over and over… when I didn't have any answers. I've been… broken… for so long, I don't know what normal is like anymore. I guess I was like this the day I met you… dreaming of my sister." The harsh voice ground to a stop, too exhausted to continue. Except that it did, now bleak and soulless, "I thought that it would be enough, that to Kritiker, Weiss doesn't matter. It exists to finish missions, without thought to the risks entailed…"

_Or the shame, or the degradatio,_ Ken added silently, his gaze fixed on the bowed head. He understood. He'd taken the missions, let them strip away his humanity… all to save other people.

Even though there was no one to save them.

A soft, frustrated sigh escaped him. Once again, when faced with the reality of Aya, his resolve had crumbled, and he'd begun thinking like a human being with a future. Every effort the ex-jock made to stop caring went astray the second his brain fixated on the shaken redhead; Ken might stop caring what happened to himself, but there was no way that he could shut off what he felt for Aya…

Not for Abyssinian, an assassin who wouldn't - couldn't - kill.

For Aya.

"Yeah…" he agreed rustily. Ken swallowed hard. For a moment, the vision of himself, standing in front of that damned mirror with Aya's hands on him, swam in his brain, and he swayed dizzily. But in the next instant, he grabbed the memories of sex and sweat and crammed them down into a back corner where they couldn't do any harm.

Gods, but he _wanted_ the red head, body _and _soul.

It was stupid; it was beyond stupid. Sex wasn't the answer to a damned thing, it was just a way of releasing the needs in his body, and hadn't he always known that?

Hadn't he always known that his heart wouldn't be satisfied with crumbs when it yearned for the whole banquet?

Heavily, Ken dropped down to sit on the mattress by Aya's side, his gaze fixed on the way his fingers knotted and unknotted nervously, his shoulders hunching defensively at the pain that he just _knew_ was coming. The apprehensive brunet licked suddenly dry lips, and cleared his throat in an effort to make the words come more easily, but it made no difference; they were still a harsh rasp of air moving over too brittle, scorched skin. "Aya… I… can't fix you. God knows I wish I could, but… I'm not enough. When this is all over, I think you should leave Weiss. Maybe go back to Crashers. Talk to a psychiatrist, though the gods know that I'd be kinda reluctant to take what they say as the truth. Especially if it's one of Kritiker's." Unspoken at the end was the thought that it would be just like Kritiker to get a shrink who could fix the broken assassin in a way that would be of the most benefit to _them…_

There was pale, dawning sunlight streaming across the skylight above, the warmer, brighter sort that suggested that even in the mountains, time was moving on and the bitter dregs of winter were letting go. Dulled in misery, the ex-ball player cast his eyes up at the patch of silvered sky where the stars were rapidly drowning, and willed himself to let everything go. Maybe that was why it was such a shock when arms that were gentler than he remembered slid around him, and a familiar head of short-cropped hair burrowed into Ken's shoulder.

"No, you can't…" Sadly, the low voice agreed, half muffled against fabric, and the muscle and bone beneath.

If only Aya would argue, would tell him that he was wrong… Sharp pain lanced through Ken's chest, only to get shoved into that handy mental sub-basement with all the other regrets from his life. What did it matter? This conversation was as close to letting anyone inside as Aya ever came in his icy majesty, and Ken supposed that he really ought to be grateful, because sooner or later, the anal bastard would revert to type and go back to holding everyone at arm's length. Somehow, Ken just couldn't summon the energy to keep on _pushing._

Aya was broken, and all the king's men and all the king's horses…

The world sucked.

Sighing softly, Ken twisted around till he was sitting with one leg drawn up and bent partly under him. His arms tightened around the withdrawn figure sharing his bed if not his soul, and Ken had to seriously wonder how he'd gotten there. It wasn't as if he hadn't had some kind of interest in Aya from the day that they met and trashed the flower shop. Of course, at the time, it had been more focused on questions like what it would take to put the arrogant newcomer in the hospital, but still… When had he gotten in so deep?

And it wasn't just his lust whatever thing with the redhead, either. Omi had just kicked his metaphoric butt and expressed his disappointment, and that had stung in a major way. Ken didn't like the uncomfortable, squirmy feeling it gave his insides to have the littlest and youngest of their group looking at him with that mix of pity and disillusionment, kind of like what the sisters at the orphanage used to level at him when the child-Ken had screwed up. Worse, he suspected that Omi was right; somewhere in his subconscious, Ken _had_ been trying to make things go away by ignoring them, and that wasn't just stupid, it was potentially lethal. The people they'd gotten mixed up with were far from reluctant to just eliminate 'problems,' and it was pretty obvious that he and his teammates had made it into that classification.

Aya's hair beneath his cheek was cobweb soft and fine, a wisp of it trying to cling to the corner of Ken's mouth, and the brunet couldn't resist rubbing against it. He pressed a light kiss to the crown of the swordsman's head, and was relieved to feel some of the rigidity ease from the tensed body within the circle of his arms. It couldn't last more than another minute or two, but for as long as it did, it was… nice… just holding on for a change.

* * *

Yet when Ken blearily opened his eyes, it had to be _hours_ later because the clear sun was now stabbing down vertically through his skylight. The other half of the bed was already empty, Aya having relocated at some point, and didn't that say something about the brunet's hyper-alert Spider senses… What kind of assassin didn't notice another person moving around? Ken scrubbed a hand across a faintly stubbled jaw and gummy eyes, and not for the first time wondered why he didn't just take up drinking – at least that way when he woke up feeling like Hell, he'd have something to blame it on.

The indentation in the pillow beside his head was already cold, meaning that the other man had been gone for some time. Ken picked up a single thread of deep red that clung to the white cotton and stretched it in front of his eyes, squinting at the rich color. It was a wonder that something so hot looking could belong to a person who was both reclusive and frigid, who only play-acted at passion. And yet…

It had definitely _felt_ like there was a crack in the swordsman's impassive exterior.

_Yeah… a crack, all right. _Ken squirmed uncomfortably, and grimaced at the thought. Unfortunately, it appeared to run a lot farther than skin deep, and involved way more than a yen for screwing around in bed, or murmuring sweet nothings to the dawn. All that talk about breaking and being broken had been disturbing, and several hours of sleep did nothing toward giving a poor jock any ideas as to what to do about it.

So much for hoping that the situation would look better after he'd slept on it.

Groaning, Ken hauled himself out of bed and scrubbed at his fuzzy teeth with his forefinger. First order of business was to shower and get rid of the lingering ache of his fading burns and bruises. Then, dressed in clean clothes, he was going to go fill the gaping hole in his middle. And only then, after what little sanity he had left was firing on all cylinders, did he intend to drag his confused emotional state out from under the stairs and beat it with a stick. Hopefully, things would make a little more sense…?

Whatever. Introspection wasn't his strong suit on a good day, and lately, good days had been in short supply. Since he was desperate for a distraction on the personal front, maybe it would be good to get a clear handle on what Omi's research might have turned up. The kid had been uncharacteristically grown up and serious after Aya and Ken's faux pas, and it might be smart to go throw himself on the petit tactician's mercy. _Of course,_ Ken added sourly, _Charity would've been easier to come by a couple of days ago – before I shot him down in that alley. _But that wasn't fair either, because Omi wasn't the sort to think with his crotch. Yes, the younger Hunter had been tough on his wayward teammates the previous night, but not unreasonably so. If anyone had come out of that session looking stupid, it had been Ken.

Scruffy, faded-to-gray blue jeans came out of his dresser drawer to be tossed haphazardly in the direction of his rumpled bed, and a long-sleeved red tee followed. Laundry was another thing that might be good to take care of, on the assumption that once things broke loose, no one was going to have time to waste on washing clothes. And clean underwear was important for good morale. The thought was enough to put a weak smile on his face, and to keep it there until the ball player made it downstairs. Once there, his nose led him directly to what had become the central point of the chalet  the kitchen.

Both Aya and Yohji were present, and to judge by the peaceful calm, they'd reached some sort of truce. Smothered in his baggy, faded black sweater, the swordsman sat at the table with his jaw propped wearily in one hand as he slowly read through Birman's thick folder. Beyond him, back to the athlete hesitating on the threshold, Yohji was stir-frying leftovers. Someone – most likely Omi – had neatened up the burnt strands of wavy blond, and it was a bit weird to see him with hair that was too short for his customary pony tail. But the blunt cut lying against the collar of his blue silk shirt looked surprisingly good… As did the restless flex and shift of the long muscles of the wire man's back. With a flourish, Yohji divided the wok's contents into four bowls, spinning them carelessly onto the table as he shot a grin Ken's way.

"Hey, sweetheart. Didn't hear you come down. Get enough beauty sleep?" He performed a short, suggestive dance step, green eyes flicking slyly in Aya's direction. Ken felt his face heat, and coughed. By some miracle – or thanks to long practice – the redhead remained oblivious.

Still, the brunet felt himself relaxing. If Yohji had gotten over his bitter fury from the night before, maybe things wouldn't turn out too bad. As he watched, the playboy hung his head out the kitchen door and bellowed, "Ommmmiiii! Get in here, kiddo, or I'll feed your share to Kenken!" A startled squawk and the rapid beat of stocking feet on hardwood told them that the hacker was on his way from somewhere in the house's depths. A long fingered, surprisingly strong hand on Ken's shoulder shoved him down into a vacant chair as Yohji added, "Well, we're out of coffee, soda, and juice, which leaves beer, tea… and beer as choices. What'll you have?"

Sliding into a seat opposite, Omi sniffed and demanded, "What happened to water, Yohji-kun?" The older blond made a rude noise and ignored the input. A smile tugged at Ken's lips and with a reluctant laugh, he said, "Tea, if you're serving. Otherwise, I'll just get myself some water."

Putting his hands together, Yohji salaamed with exaggerated respect and intoned, "Your wish is my command, O Master." Over the man's bent head, Omi rolled his eyes, but an impish grin brightened his childish features, stripping away the image of _too old_ that the previous night had left. Ken felt the stress oozing down his spine and away into the old, ladder-back chair, taking with it the past couple of months. Dimly, he just knew that the nostalgic warmth stealing over him was fake – at its best, life within the team had never had this sort of camaraderie in the old days – but sitting down to a meal with the three of them, the blonds bickering and teasing, Aya studiously ignoring them but still sneaking glances, was comforting.

It also felt as if something had gotten resolved while Ken had been sleeping. And that gave him a worried urge to tense right back up; surprises were never one hundred percent good under the best of circumstances, and the trouble Weiss was in didn't even come close to qualifying as 'best.'

Curious, he sneaked glances at the other three while inhaling the unnamed dish of stir-fried noodles and other, less identifiable things. One thing was for sure; when he felt like it, Yohji was a damned fine cook. He had a knack for making something tasty out of the questionable, wilted bits that accumulated at the back of the fridge. Just now, the senior assassin was rocking his chair back on two legs, cradling his bowl against his chest as he shoveled in the food and continued to tease Omi with references to genies and lamps. Gradually, Ken tuned them out and shifted his attention to Aya.

The object of his covert observation ate mechanically, studying the stacked papers with grim desperation, the line of his shoulders and back turned stiff and unwelcoming. The Aya of last night, who'd admitted to human weaknesses, had crawled back under Abyssinian's protective shell. Ken stole another quick glance at the blond pair, and felt his premonition of impending trouble intensify.

But what the heck? No one was fighting. Yohji and Omi had gone back to being their normal selves, and Aya was just Aya… even if his version of 'normal' tended toward the anti-social and brooding side. Giving up, Ken gave a small shake of his head and concentrated on filling up on lunch.

"Ne… Aya-kun? Have you found anything more in the Press Club materials?" Omi's light alto was hesitantly polite as he set down his half-empty bowl and arranged his chopsticks across it. His large, lake-blue eyes were fixed expectantly on the impassive Hunter, who gave an ambiguous shrug. Aya finished chewing and swallowed before answering.

"Possibly. One of the unknowns in the mission profile concerned the documents that were stolen, and what their value might be. Kritiker's research had indicated that there was an international interest, but not _why_ there was. I believe I may have found the answer, and if I'm correct, it will give us a sense of what deadlines the opposition may be laboring under." Pausing, he sipped at his tea while interestingly enough no one groused about the interruption. Even Yohji managed to contain the urge to make a smart-ass remark, just leaning back and watching expectantly. "The Prime Minister, Junichiro Koizumi, is scheduled to visit India late in April. At this point, China is Japan's only real competitor, economically and politically. But alone, we lack the strength to stand against the Communist alliance of China, Pakistan, and North Korea. Should Japan succeed in reaching an accord with India, that situation will be reversed."

A rude snort from the playboy was accompanied by a drawled, "The world's a big place, Ayan. I saw the list of what they think _might_ have gotten ripped off. Hell, they aren't even sure… And if _they_ aren't what makes you think you've got a handle on it?"

"True. The potential document losses cover everything from Defense Forces reports on nuclear and missile readiness, to the security measures surrounding the tenth anniversary of the sarin attacks by the Aum Shinrikyo cult. However, one item on the list initially attracted my attention-" A spark of excitement put faint pink on the swordsman's sculpted cheekbones, but his cultured voice remained level as he flipped to a particular page in the mission packet. Ken leaned forward together with the rest of the team as the folder was spun about and a fingertip pointed to a block of text. Slowly, Omi read it aloud.

" 'Report to the Cabinet Security Council on Piracy in the Bay of Bengal and the Malacca Strait…' Um… Let me think." A distracted air settled onto the boyish face as his eyes became unfocused. "Wasn't there an incident a few years back where the Indian navy and coast guard recovered a Japanese merchant ship that had been hijacked?"

The redhead's shapely mouth twitched into a hint of a smug smile, almost distracting Ken from his words – not a hard thing to do when the athlete had no clue what the two of them were talking about – as Aya nodded. "Precisely. Eighty percent of Japan's oil passes through the Strait, and twenty percent of the ships are Japanese owned. The government has made overtures to India in the past to secure cooperation in protecting shipping. But in addition, there's also been a great deal of controversy over the Indian nuclear tests, as well as the Sri Lankan peace process…" As he named each, he tapped the corresponding item on the list, sending a wave of nausea to Ken's gut. By their expressions, the same was happening to Yohji and Omi, but Aya remained oblivious, concluding, "While I was prepping for my cover as Fujita, I noticed that there were several 'hot' topics, and that these were among them. I can't guarantee it, but my instincts say that the group that we're pursuing would like to see the Prime Minister's visit on April 28th come to an unpleasant end."

The kitchen was dead silent, except for the monotonous hum of the refrigerator, until finally Yohji cleared his throat. "Damn, Aya… You sure you aren't the one who was a PI your last incarnation?"

The wine dark head inclined slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, as Omi shifted and muttered mostly to himself, "Okay… Gotcha. Their window for making the contact and obtaining the stolen materials has an end point. And they'll need to get the stuff far enough in advance for it to be useful…" The team's tactician looked up sharply. "We've been assuming that these guys are mercenaries, right? That probably means that they're buying the stuff for somebody else-"

"Whoa! Time out, kiddo!" The two feet of the playboy's chair that had been in the air thunked onto the floor. "That question's out of bounds. Sure, it would be nice to do something about the Evil Empire or whatever you want to call them, but that's way outside of our league. Let's keep our eyes on the-"

"I swear, Yohji-kun, if you keep on with the sports metaphor and say 'ball,' I'll put hair remover in your shampoo." Annoyed, the other blond interrupted him with a no-nonsense glare. In spite of himself, Ken snickered; usually he was the one catching Hell for talking soccer incessantly. It was kind of endearing to see Omi share the love with someone else for a change. His best friend shot him a dirty look too before addressing the alarmed older Hunter again. "Fine. I agree that we're not equipped to take on the government of a world power, and yes, it leads us right back to the moral quicksand of one guy's right is another guy's wrong. But I think we've all agreed that these people we're fighting… there's no gray to _their_ Darkness. They murdered Honey, and wouldn't have minded killing us either, right? Them we need to deal with. Permanently."

Ken found himself nodding his agreement, right along with Yohji. Aya, however, shoved back his chair with a muttered, "Excuse me," and strode rapidly out of the kitchen. As the squeak of the couch's aged springs announced that the swordsman had flung himself down on it, Yohji heaved a troubled sigh and raked the wavy locks of blond back from his forehead.

"Shit. And here I thought we were making some progress…"

* * *

"Ken. Shut up and dry the damned dishes, will you?" Lean fingers resting on his hips, Yohji glowered at his cleaning detail assistant, and Ken had to fight the temptation to roll his eyes. Again.

For one thing, it was incredibly unfair that Omi had been excused from slave labor to go supposedly fine-tune his computer searches. More than likely, the petit hacker had just used it as a way to get out from under the once lazy and laid-back playboy – who was currently showing a decidedly Hitler-ish taste for sadism and world domination. Not having the teen's knack for electronic data extraction, nor Aya's when it came to reading between the lines in a Kritiker file, Ken found himself under Yohji's command. And it sucked. Big time.

Mulishly, Ken tossed the dish-cloth at the table, and countered, "What is so wrong with just leaving them to air dry in the rack? We do that all the time at home."

"Yeah? Which might explain why the kitchen at the Koneko always looks like a pigsty." The swift response was accompanied by a hunching of Yohji's shoulders, and an increasingly belligerent tone. Ken had to admit that it was like waving a red flag in his face; it blew the fact that he'd grudgingly decided to like the scrawny blond pain in the ass right out of his mind. He poked Yohji in the chest – hard – sending him stumbling back a step.

It wasn't that he was spoiling for a fight exactly. But all the frustrations of the past weeks threatened to boil over, and the detective just happened to be in the way. A similar irritation simmered in the cat green eyes glaring down at Ken, and for a second, it crossed his mind that Yohji was capable of taking him down.

He didn't really care.

Then, to Ken's surprise, Yohji took a _voluntary_ step away, moving out of the optimal range for a hand-to-hand clash and deliberately defusing the situation. Sighing, the blond said, "Listen, Kenken… there's something we need to talk about. About Aya. Omi and I-"

The wild whoop made both of them jump, and exchange equally baffled glances. It was Omi, and he wasn't in danger… and then the noise was repeated, resolving itself into a shouted litany of "I got it! I got it!" and Yohji snorted, a smirk hovering on his wide mouth. Ken's sudden, irrational anger bled away and he snickered. "You think he found something?"

"Yeah." Yohji made an 'after you' bow with a flourish, motioning for the ex-soccer player to precede him. "Either that, or the mice are damned noisy. Guess we'd better go see what."

Ken hesitated, unsure whether to go see what his friend had found, or to pursue the confession he'd sensed in the making. "Um, Yohji… About Aya-"

"Later, Kenken. It'll keep."

But if that was the case, why did Yohji seem relieved to have dodged the bullet?

Shaking his head, Ken followed the older Weiss. Aya joined them at the foot of the stairs, scanning the apparently empty living room with a frown that put a crease between his brows, and sent an old pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses sliding down his nose. The air of a disturbed scholar suited him, in Ken's opinion, as his heart contracted painfully. But thoughts about how _good_ Aya looked were a bad idea. For one thing, there was the whole business of just how sane the red haired man was, and the ethical considerations of sex with someone who might not be able to make the best decisions. Then Aya shot him a glare over the tops of his glasses that clearly said _idiot_, and Ken hastily reconsidered some of his objections; Abyssinian might not be completely sane, but there was no doubting Aya's brains.

The victory chant started up again, and quirking an eyebrow thoughtfully, Yohji whispered, "In the den?" as he slipped away, shifting effortlessly into a noiseless, hunting stalk. Aya shrugged, stripping off his glasses and hooking one bow into the collar of his sweater in lieu of a pocket before following. That left Ken alone, and hastily he trotted after the other two.

Sure enough, the wild cackling led the three wary Hunters back around the base of the stairs, into the narrow hall. Light spilled from the open door of the villa's seldom-used den, and the men exchanged glances when the laughter became loud, off-key singing in what was unmistakably Omi's voice. Yohji murmured, "I don't know… I think I kinda preferred the Mad Scientist number he was doing."

" 'Mwu-ha-ha?' " Ken suggested, out of the corner of his mouth. When the blond nodded, Aya gave an exasperated huff and left off trying to sneak silently, opting instead to simply walk up to the door and rap on its jamb.

"Omi." he said severely, raising his voice, "What's going on?"

The teen had unceremoniously dumped the piles of magazines and books heaped on the desk into an old easy chair, and set his laptop up on the now-cleared desk next to the older, larger system. The two computer screens were flashing columns of numbers in tandem, bars of lime green flickering by quicker than a human eye could follow. Seated in front of them in a creaky swivel chair, the teen's fingers flew across the two keyboards, making full use of the meager processor power available. The headphones of his discman covered his ears, but the faint thumping of the track's bass was audible to his observers. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, Omi bounced in the old desk chair, then swiveled around to exclaim, "**_I_** am a genius."

"Oh?" Yohji paused in the act of applying a lit match to the end of his cigarette, tipping his head to peer at the excited hacker over the tops of his non-existent sunglasses. It was kind of funny, and an indication of just how much time they had spent in each others' company that Ken could practically _see_ the tinted lenses below the vivid green of his eyes. The slouching blond held the match to the cigarette until the scent of burning tobacco wafted through the stuffy room, then waved it till the flame went out. Omi likewise fanned the air, coughing.

"Would you mind not doing that in here? Not only is it bad for the system-" He patted the aging desktop computer, "-but does the word 'flammable' mean anything to you? This room's packed with paper."

"Yeah, yeah…" Smirking, the playboy planted his rear on the edge of the desk, and took another drag from the cigarette. Omi scowled, but decided to let the provocation pass unanswered. Instead, he addressed Ken and Aya.

"That piece of the credit card number that you found did the trick, Aya-kun. It matched to a car rental from Avis from the day before Yohji-kun spotted the same company's sticker on the map. Which means that I now have a plate number to go with the make and model of the car. And, the same credit card has turned up again at a convenience store in Tanagawa, in the receipts they submitted to the bank this morning."

The light, cheerful tone brought an involuntary smile to Ken's lips, but passed Aya right by. The older Hunter frowned. "What was the address on the shop?"

"Three streets over from the one that the apartment building you were held in is located on." Omi replied promptly. "But get this, the transaction is dated only two days ago."

"Before the fire." Yohji pointed out. At the word 'fire,' he gave the cigarette between his fingers an odd look, and stubbed it out against the rubber sole of his slipper, adding absently, "Doesn't mean anything… They're probably long gone by now."

"No, I don't think so." Shaking his head, the younger Weiss spun back around to face the monitor and began typing rapidly. "There's some sort of a connection tying them to Tanagawa. I mean, think about it: Why would a bunch of international art smugglers, with seasoned professional muscle hailing from half the Communist countries on the planet, turn up in a dump like Tanagawa when there are so many better places to stay? I mean, just look at that hotel where the auction was held; now, that was _nice_."

Glancing between his teammates, Ken slowly rocked up onto the balls of his feet, and back down. "Yeah… But I'll bet that there's a lot more surveillance on a place like that hotel. Maybe they picked Tanagawa because nobody cares enough to keep an eye on it?"

"No." The firm contradiction came from Aya. "They're there because of family. Do you recall what Honey said? Those men knew her cousins, knew that they were welcome at the Hot Body, and the apartment house. Check the family names for everyone that we have who's involved. There has to be a connection somewhere."

"Okay… That makes sense in a weird, perverted, incestuous sort of way…" The elder of the two blonds was nodding slowly. He shifted the dead cigarette to the other corner of his mouth, allowing it to dangle precariously as he added, "You may not talk a lot, Ayan, but you're usually right on the money when you do." Unexpectedly, the comment made Omi giggle.

"Is that where you end up when you follow the money, Yohji-kun?" he quipped, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. "Now, everybody get the heck out of my office. The genius has some work to do."

* * *

The problem with being essentially a brawn and not brains kind of guy, Ken admitted, was that it was damned tedious waiting for something physical to do. His sleep schedule was permanently skewed from staying up fretting… and doing other things… night after night, so it wasn't as if he could go to bed and zone. There was virtually no TV signal, thanks to the surrounding mountains, and the only videos in the place were ones that he'd already seen. Aya was busy going over his cryptic notes, and the blonds were plowing through the mountain of bank data that the credit card search had yielded, plotting place and time on a map. There was nothing to do for a guy whose main talents were limited to kicking around a ball and to gutting people.

And he didn't even have a soccer ball any more.

Ken lay on the couch with his head hanging off the seat cushion, thick brown hair gone shaggy nearly brushing the floor, and stared at the rose-tinted light outside. The last patch of lingering, crusty snow had finally converted itself to goopy mud in the shadow of gray-violet boulders. And out in the open, where the sun could penetrate, there were hesitant shoots of green. He'd kind of lost track of how many days had passed since they'd broken the missing swordsman out of the hospital, but the truth was that if Aya was right, the clock was ticking down to disaster.

God, Jesus, and Holy Mary… April 28th? They were down to counting in days – not weeks, or months.

Ken scrubbed a hand across his eyes. The red haired, anal retentive freak probably _was_ right. They'd been looking for the reason behind the sequence of baffling events that they'd stumbled into the middle of, and it made sense that the opposition had come to Japan not only to sell the stolen art in a lucrative market, but also to _buy_ something. Logically, it also followed that the something be government secrets with the potential to do considerable harm. And where better to use them than right under everyone's noses - in Japan.

Grudgingly, he had to admire the mercenary team. They'd pulled together a complex operation that would have put Takatori Reiji and his bunch to shame. And Takatori had made it – albeit briefly – to the Prime Minister's office. These people were on the road to isolating Weiss' homeland from its allies, setting it up to fall. It was pure chance that a man Aya hadn't seen since childhood had been A) present, and B) recognized the former son of a privileged house in the Kritiker agent. Chance that the enemy had made the connection with a name on the Press Club's roster. And chance that had left the swordsman alive to come home to his team. Except for those tiny events, no one would ever have been the wiser that Japan was teetering on the brink of disaster.

Ken had never really believed in luck as such. Hard work made things happen, like his rise from the obscurity and poverty of an orphanage to being a J-League star. But he had to admit that only a wildly improbable chain of events could have lead the Hunters to where they were now, on the brink of taking on an enemy that had been a jump ahead of them from the start.

Only chance had let him get close to Aya.

That was a disturbing thought all by itself. If Abyssinian hadn't been made, he wouldn't have nearly died, and Ken would have gone the rest of his life suppressing _what ifs_ and _maybes_. His feelings about Yohji wouldn't have changed from bare tolerance to grudging friendship. Omi would still be a playmate and buddy, not an almost lover.

Ken would probably be firmly on the road to Hell.

He stared blindly at the deepening twilight as he turned the thought around in his head, examining it from a safe distance the way he would a land mine or a pile of doggy-do. But there was no denying the truth; Ken recognized that he'd been drifting closer and closer to getting lost in the berserker rages that a mission brought – and that things had turned around since setting out to rescue their teammate. Not perfectly so, by any means, but it felt like he had something to live for again, something immediate rather than the abstract goals of Kritiker. He had people to call his own, and they wouldn't simply follow orders blindly any more; they would think, and choose their own way.

In spite of himself, he snickered at the mental image of the four Weiss Hunters in tights and billowing capes, fighting for Truth, Justice, and-

"That must be one Hell of a wet dream you're having, Kenken." Yohji's lazy drawl startled the upside-down brunet so much that Ken squawked, floundered, and tumbled head-first off the edge of the couch, scraping his shoulder on the end table, and tangling a flailing foot in the cord of the end table's lamp. The amused playboy automatically put out a hand to stop its descent.

"Yohji! Don't _do_ that!"

"Why not? You should've seen your face, Ken-chan. I swear, you were about to start drooling." the older man protested amiably. He came around the end of the sofa and dropped into its sagging embrace, long legs thrust out under the table. There wasn't a whole lot Ken could do other than glower as he rubbed at his shoulder and dragged himself up off the floor. A wink told him that Yohji wasn't done - not by a long shot -and sure enough, the smirking blond leaned over confidingly and whispered, "So, which was it? Fantasizing about new locations to test out, or imagining Aya in some sexy get-up?"

"Gah!" Ken smacked his forehead with his open palm. He _would not_ think about Aya's trim form in tights - but he was, and damn, but the outfit _was_ sexy. "I'm going to hurt you." the red-faced assassin muttered. "And I'm not going to wait until the mission is over with, either. Could we _not_ talk about Aya like that?"

But the blond wasn't joking any more. His broad grin was fading, and he ran a hand uncomfortably back through the wavy thickness of his hair as his eyes darted away, unwilling to meet his partner's. "About that…" he said awkwardly. "About the end of the mission… We… Well, that is, Omi and me…. got to talking…"

Confused, Ken stared at the senior Hunter. Yohji was so seldom at a loss for words, his glib patter not only romancing anything on two legs, but also serving to rescue him from one scrape after another, that to hear him stall and die away like that was unthinkable. And as the brunet drew breath to tease him about it, his earlier apprehension returned, multiplied, and he blurted, "Yohji…! What the fuck's the matter? Has something happened?"

"You might say that…" Yohji slumped down in the sagging cushions, pressing the heels of both palms against his tightly shut eyes. "Shit, Ken. I wish there were an easy way to say this, but there isn't. The truth is, the way Aya is right now, he's a danger to himself, and to us. When this mission is over, we'd like him to leave Weiss. For good."

_To be continued…_

_**

* * *

Author's Note: You know, there really is a problem inherent in writing a fic that's grounded in real world events; if you're slow and putzy, you get too separated from them for people to remember what the heck they were and why they were important. Case in point, Koizumi really did visit India on April 28th, 2005. Now that it's November, who the heck remembers that?**_

_If you're interested in a bit more about the political situation Aya describes, a good overview article can be found at: _http: (slash slash) www. deccanherald. com /deccanherald /apr262005 /editpage1612382005425. asp

_The article, "In Perspective: Japan's Strategic Importance" by Sudha Ramachandran ran in **The Deccan Herald,** Tuesday, April 26, 2005. _

_Also, I've gotten a couple of comments regarding the use of "petit," "brunet," and "blond" to describe the Weiss team. I do recognize that the other forms are used interchangeably in English, but my first language is one that does make gender distinctions. Every time I see "brunette," I expect to find out that Ken is really a girl. I just can't deal with it. _

_Ta until next time._

_Lisa_


	21. Chapter 21: Not With a Bang

**Reflections: Not With a Bang **

Chapter 21

_A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason._

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**

* * *

Author's Note: **Oh, good lord. This is a re-upload AGAIN. I really should have waited for Lita's comments the first time, and now for CGay's (even if she is abandoning me to the piranha-infested waters of commas and hyphens). As usual, they found the most mistakes. The Bean-Paste Award for most embarrassing typo spotted, however, goes to Steph this chapter. I am grateful to her, and to Lita, Lylia, Kelly, Beysie, Gillian, and Teresa for not only pointing out boo-boos, but for speculating on where the plot was going and offering encouragement. Thank you all so much for your patience, and also to everyone else who has hung around for the next installment. _

_L.A. Mason_

* * *

Slowly, methodically, Ken shredded the edge of the map stretched across his knees, and stared out the window at the thickening signs of human habitation. It wasn't as if Omi really needed him as a navigator, any way. The teen probably knew every road in and out of Tokyo, the way he tended to know other stuff; on an instinctive, gut level. But it had been a nice gesture, asking in his soft, diffident voice if Ken wouldn't mind… 

Of course, the charade had fizzled out ten minutes after they'd gotten on the road, and Omi had just automatically taken the turn-off that not only by-passed the town below the mountain cabin, but would get their little caravan onto the highway that was the shortest route to Tanagawa.

If he weren't so tired by it all, Ken might have objected to being 'managed.'

It was a given that Weiss wouldn't be returning to the Villa, so they'd loaded up and taken both vehicles, the sedan and the beat-up, non-descript van. Omi had flashed his big eyes in his most beseeching look at Ken, pleading that he needed a co-pilot, and wouldn't Ken please… While the truth of the matter was that the tactician had judged that Ken and Yohji needed to be separated lest the flaming row – Omi's words – start up all over again. And Ken and Aya were likewise judged to be a bad combination, because they _didn't_ argue… they didn't even look at one another. So Ken was stuck with his best friend, in the sedan, and thinking about crawling under the carpet or something every time the teenager gave a long-suffering sigh of frustration.

The dreary, mucky spring-in-factory-land terrain slipping by outside the window pretty much fit perfectly with the former jock's mood. They'd gone from rainy fields and anonymous villages, to industrial parks and manufacturing districts rendered into ghost-towns by the bad economy, only stopping once for a railroad crossing, waiting out the stream of cargo containers that flowed by on flat-bed rail cars, headed for the harbor and the big ships headed out, and away. Ken had watched with a vague, hungry envy. Shaking himself, he asked, voice gone hoarse with disuse, "So… what's the plan?"

"Ano…" Distracted, Omi waited until there was a gap in traffic, then smoothly merged into the flow of cars and trucks. "I put together a list of family and long-time associates that are still in the area of the night club. I was figuring we'd start with the ones closest to that convenience store, where we got the hits on the credit card number, and work our way out from there. With the fire, and Honey's death, they may not be quite so eager to cover for them any more."

"You still think that those guys have connections to Honey's cousins?"

"Yeah… But it will be hard to hide a group of that size. And most of them are outsiders, with no claim to family loyalty. I think the locals'll be ready to see them gone." Calm, thoughtful, the youngest Weiss sounded very grown up, and it made Ken tired all over again.

"Christ, Omi…" His head fell back against the top edge of the seat, and he addressed his words to the ceiling. "How long is this going to drag on? I'm ready for it to be over."

"You want your bang?" chuckling, Omi flashed a grin at the brunet, who rolled a blank eye his way.

"Huh? Oh, you mean that bit about the universe ending with a whimper, and not a bang." He was used to struggling to keep up with Omi, and after a moment, dredged up the quote that the little blond was referring to. "I guess. I wasn't thinking about that. I'm just sick of sitting around doing nothing. It's time to kick their butts so we can go home–" On the last word, his throat closed up. Home? How could he think about going home, to the flower shop and to Kritiker, when it would be without Aya? Ken choked, but his partner didn't seem to notice, nodding agreement.

"I want to go home, too. I'm tired of sleeping on a lumpy mattress, and eating leftovers. I'd like to go back to school while I'm still young enough to graduate without looking like a dork. I mean, I realize I don't look my age and it's possible no one would notice, but it would still be humiliating to be _old_ and wearing my school uniform." Chattering playfully, Omi kept at it until Ken gave a reluctant laugh.

"Yeah, right. They'll revoke your charter membership in the geek club if that happens."

"Hey!" The car swerved a little as Omi took his hand from the wheel to lean over and swat at Ken's head, but they'd gotten deep enough into the unending sameness of scruffy streets and run-down warehouses that there was hardly any traffic. They turned another corner, coming around to the back side of a fenced yard with a peeling sign that read 'Used Auto Parts.' The car rolled to a stop, the white van coasting up beside it, and Omi opened his door and jumped out. He trotted to the gate, rattling the padlock and chain as a lanky figure slowly unfolded from the driver's side of the other vehicle. Hands shoved carelessly in his jeans pockets, Yohji ambled up beside him, and in a moment, they were heaving the chain-link gate open. Omi dashed back to the sedan, and drove through the opening.

"This is a great place to hide!" he enthused. "We'll just be one more dead car, in a forest of dead cars." Passing them, Yohji backed the van into a gap beside a wrecked bus, and as soon as it stopped moving, a familiar red haired figure was scrambling up to drape an oil stained, blue tarp over the vehicle's blunt nose. Ken's heart squeezed tight at the sight, and he missed what the smaller youth was saying.

"Ken-kun…" Exasperated and sympathetic, Omi leaned over and tweaked his ear.

"Ow! What the fuck–?" Ken jerked away, scowling.

"Mission, Ken-kun. Don't forget the mission. Right?" The little hacker had parked their car in between a stack of indefinable, crushed slabs, and a large panel truck that listed ominously over the shorter sedan. He was hanging on the still open door, expectantly waiting for Ken to quit spacing and get out. In spite of himself, the athlete blushed and scrambled over the divided seat and past the wheel to the driver's side. Beyond the hood, the other blond snorted a laugh. Ken glared and gave him the finger, then went _woof_ when Omi slapped his duffle bag into his chest, muttering, "Grow up, both of you."

Surprisingly, Yohji shut up.

"Okay, people." Omi said briskly, handing around the short-range head-sets. "Aya-kun, you're at home-base, monitoring. Yohji, you get the coveralls, and start going door-to-door, checking meters. I'll see about picking up a local public school's uniform, and join the after-school crowd hitting the shops. Ken, since they never got a good look at you, and you blend in the most anyway, you get to start slipping into apartment buildings – any place that's big enough for several people to be hiding out. Keep your comms on 'receive' at all times, and don't hesitate to back off if you get a bad feeling. Got it everyone?"

"Question." Hopping on one foot as he shoved his boot down the leg of the dingy blue coverall, Yohji stole a glance at the tactician. "We're treating the convenience store as ground zero, not the Hot Body, right?"

"Yes. What about it?" Omi asked. He paused in the act of plugging his own head-set into a useless Walkman since he had neither baseball cap nor long hair to disguise it. But at least its battery pack would boost the signal, giving him an extra couple of blocks range. He shrugged lightly, tucking the battered silver rectangle into his backpack, and slinging the bag up onto his shoulder.

"Ayan and I were looking at your print-outs off the net on the way down. There's a subsidized apartment block midway between the two locations. Lot of units. And not too far from where Aya was found by the cops. Ken should probably start there." Serious for a change, Yohji's usual drawl was clipped. The home-made ID badge that Omi had whipped up on the Villa's computer went onto the chest of his coveralls, and he slung a worn leather tool belt around his lean waist. Flicking a sharp glance at Ken, the blond grimly checked his watch and a small pistol that slipped into a pouch on the belt. "I'm not going to be able to get in there – looks like the meters are probably all together on the alley, instead of in the individual units."

Ken bridled, snapping, "I thought we ruled the place out as too crowded. These guys aren't going to want to hang out where everybody's granny is a witness."

"And if you'd been paying attention instead of running your mouth, you'd have noticed that three of the Hot Body's employees gave the complex as their home address." annoyed, Yohji shot back. Before Ken's cocked fist could connect with the blond's sneering mouth, Aya said in his low, flat voice, "It doesn't matter whether we check the place first, or last. We still have to check it."

Anger dissipating, Ken's fist dropped and he took a step backward. "Yeah… I guess." he muttered miserably, unable to look at the man whose cold, controlled features were breaking his heart. Opening the duffle, he dragged on his denim jacket and turned resolutely away. "I'll start at the apartment complex."

"Ken-kun?" Omi's light voice rose, anxious, as Ken dropped into a run, leaving his splintering team behind.

* * *

"Shit. Doesn't the sun ever shine around here?" Ken growled under his breath. He slid down the grimy concrete wall to sit on his heels, staring at the late afternoon rush hour traffic streaming past. True to Omi's prediction, he'd slipped in and out of apartment building, after apartment building, without anyone giving him a second look, but all he had to show for it was a tension ache in the back of his neck. He'd checked in according to plan after each strike-out, but the sound of Aya's baritone, even filtered through the crappy ear piece, hurt like a son of a bitch, and Ken's progress reports had gotten shorter and shorter. Frustrated, he raked a hand through his tangled hair, snarling an obscenity when his fingers snagged. 

This was the same area that he'd explored when he'd met Honey, the same as when he and Omi – and wasn't that an embarrassment? – had come to Tanagawa together. It was getting to be familiar enough that Ken could call up a map of alleys and bars in the back of his head. Idly, he debated hitting the soba place he'd seen for a bowl of noodles, and then resuming his slow, spiraling exploration. A couple of hours earlier, Ken had glimpsed Yohji, equipped with a clipboard and the tired air of a man doing the world's most boring job, but blond and brunet had passed as if they were total strangers. Which, considering the sucker-punch of suggesting that they ditch Aya, the other man probably was. Ken thumped his skull angrily against the wall. How the fuck could Yohji – and Omi, his so-called best friend – have colluded like that, and decided that the injured swordsman had to go? Okay, granted, he was washed up as an assassin, but—

_You told him the same thing, you hypocrite._

And that was the problem, wasn't it? It was okay for Ken to dump his whatever – 'lover' seemed way too personal a term – but it wasn't okay when Yohji and Omi suggested it.

Depressed, Ken stared blindly across the street, barely aware that the stream of cars slowed to a stop when the traffic signal changed. Between a chugging, vibrating city bus, and a small but determined taxi that was wedging itself into the flow, he could just see the other side and the grated windows of a package liquor store. The flashing neon advertising a brand of beer that he hated went from blue, to red, and back to blue, casting a weird illumination on the two men who paused on the shop's threshold. They were dressed like any other blue collar factory worker, getting off shift and stopping to pick up something to relax with, but there was something about the way they held their bodies that was… off. Ken stood up suddenly, but the bus had inched forward, blocking his view as it fought off the encroaching taxi.

Adrenaline sang through his veins, and the athlete had to force himself to stop, and think. Just what was it that had triggered his overactive imagination, anyway? Two guys, nothing special. They didn't remind him especially of any of the pictures they'd gotten of the opposition… didn't seem overtly secretive. Without conscious decision, Ken was darting across the busy street, taking advantage of the jam caused when the bus's driver hung out his window, screaming insults at the taxi, and the cabbie rolled down his window and reciprocated.

The strangers were only a short ways down the sidewalk when Ken dodged a final, homicidal motorist and made it to the curb. They didn't so much as glance back at the honking horns or shouts, moving along in tandem.

Like they were trained to.

Ken's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. No, he wasn't imagining it. They moved smoothly through the thronging pedestrians, side-stepping collisions with old ladies towing little wire shopping carts, passing around the gaggle of teenagers clogging the pavement like water around a stone. And their eyes were constantly in motion, taking in everything, analyzing. Watching for threats. Even when the one man bobbed his head in a quick bow to a self-important shop-keeper who was glaring suspiciously at the kids, the guy was able to spot the boy reaching toward his hip pocket and evade the would-be pick-pocket.

Hanging back safely out of range, the brunet tried to squelch the bubble of excitement in his gut. All afternoon, he'd wandered the neighborhood, coming up empty, and here, finally, was the lead he'd been hoping for: they were a couple of professionals, just like him.

Without hesitation, Ken tapped his head set. "Abyssinian. Targets spotted. Three blocks west of your location, on the main drag. Two, on foot."

"Acknowledged, Siberian." The prompt reply didn't raise so much as a goose-bump. "I'll notify the others. Out."

Now there was nothing to do but follow, and wait. His partners probably weren't all that far away; success having come well within the zone Omi had predicted it would, and the others were canvassing streets relatively near by. So long as he didn't do something stupid, like get spotted, they'd be able to tail the pair to whatever lair the enemy was holed up at. And depending on what they saw there, the Hunters would finally get their chance.

Ken's stomach roiled.

There was a taste of bile at the back of his throat that he could easily identify with the cold fury that made his fingers tense into claws, and his shoulders shake a little. These were the assholes who'd put Weiss into a tailspin, tearing them out of their complacent, mental world. Okay, so maybe Aya _was_ right on some levels, maybe they _should_ be questioning Kritiker's decisions more. But the price of having their eyes opened was to rip the team apart. At this rate, they'd win the battle against the political guerrillas, only to lose the war to save themselves.

The pair ahead of him turned right at a gas station that Omi had earlier designated as a landmark in divvying up the area to be searched. Ken tapped his headset again, tersely relaying the information. There weren't as many pedestrians on the cross street; they were entering a section that was mainly small manufacturing, and a lot of the buildings were vacant and boarded up, a testimony to post-war endeavors that had moved on in search of cheaper labor. When a metal, roll-up door opened up ahead, Ken felt his heart seize up. But it was only a small delivery van pulling out onto the street.

The driver smoothly pulled it over to the curb, snapped on the flashers, and hopped down to run around the rear of his vehicle. His blue coveralls were worn and on the shabby side, as were those of an overweight man who followed him out of the building, gesticulating furiously. Between the eye-roll toward heaven, the pointing down the street toward the more affluent parts of the city, and the fist shaken under the driver's nose, Ken didn't need to be able to hear the words being spat out. In fact, except for the head guy's girth, it could be Omi berating him and Yohji for getting behind on the flower shop's deliveries.

The good thing about it was that the drama completely absorbed the two men that Ken was tailing, and they made one of the oldest mistakes in the book: they were close to home base, inside their comfort zone, and got too relaxed. Neither of them so much as glanced back at the supposed wage slave plodding along a half a block behind them. Instead, they nodded to a man leaning casually against the wall outside another of the neighborhood's ubiquitous taverns, and trotted up the narrow exterior stairs to the building's second floor, where they vanished inside. Ken forced himself to keep walking.

He jostled past the argument blocking the sidewalk, blatantly checking it out as if he were just another local. The man standing with folded arms in front of the bar, on the other hand, the Hunter's attention slid past as if he were nothing more than a patch of graffiti on the wall. Ken's skin prickled under the return scrutiny of black eyes in a face that looked rounder and more Korean than Japanese. Without seeming to, the athlete gauged the probable strength of a body that was barely his height but a little stockier, and cataloged the scars on the backs of his knuckles. The longer torso and shorter legs suggested a lower center of gravity, and if the guy were a soccer player, Ken would peg him as having a killer goal kick. A humorless smile twitched his lips. Well, he hadn't been a great goalie for nothing; punching the ball in defense of the posts was nothing new, and neither was pulling off a slider to trip up the other team's offense. It wasn't about the individual, but winning the game for the team. But he put the game jargon firmly out of his head as he crossed at the next intersection, turning toward the block of cheap apartments that had earned Yohji's ire earlier. All their utility meters were mounted on a single, communal wall, and so gave the former detective no excuse to go door to door. Ken slipped into the covered walkway that housed a number of trash dumpsters and battered scooters, and activated his mic.

"Upstairs from Matsushita's." he said brusquely. Naming the actual dive was a risk, but an acceptable one. It didn't, however, mean that chit-chat was a good idea, and Ken let his comm fall back into its passive default mode. He'd hear anything directed at him, but wouldn't broadcast if he didn't have to.

Hat and denim jacket went into his duffel, and the night-vision goggles came out. Ken shivered in his snug black turtleneck, but it was more from nerves than anything else. The weather had finally decided to play at being springtime in earnest, and the evening air was nowhere near as bitter as it had been the last time he'd been sneaking around Tanagawa, and his shirt and dark jeans were plenty warm enough. The thing was, he'd have to scope out the upstairs of the bar's building on his own, and that meant slowly working his way in, watching for watchers. It would be naïve to think that the enemy wouldn't post anyone… He took a deep, cleansing breath, and stuffed the duffel behind a post that supported the carport, wedged against the plank privacy fence. If found, it held nothing that could identify Weiss, anyway. Flexing his fingers, he jumped, catching the bottom rung of a rusted fire escape ladder, and swarmed up it, rolling into the cover of the flat roof's low perimeter.

The residents apparently regularly used the graveled and tarred expanse. There were clotheslines strung from the corners of the small shed that covered the top of the stairwell, and a row of containers filled with dirt, and the sad remains of wire trellises tied with strips of cloth for supporting beans and the like. An aluminum folding chair with a sprung seat leaned against a rickety table, waiting for summer. It was all achingly familiar, reminding Ken of being young, and poor... Of the dim time before the Sisters and the orphanage. He shook his head slightly, rising to a crouch and scurrying across the roof to where he could see the skyline in the direction of the bar, diagonally across from him.

Patience paid off about the same time that Ken was sure his butt cheeks had fallen asleep forever. An orange spark and a trail of warmth that had to be rising smoke showed the motionless assassin the location of a man tucked into an angle of the exterior stairwell of the target building. Boredom, and the ordinariness of the locale had convinced the guard to light up. And if his observer had been anyone other than Weiss, it would have been okay; who would give a guy taking advantage of the mild air to enjoy a smoke outside a second thought? But taken together with the stocky man still leaning against the wall below, and the pair that Ken had tailed, the implications were clear.

They'd found the enemy's base.

Surreptitiously, the brunet edged back, folding himself into the shadow of a big planter box. Okay, the smart thing to do would be to check from another angle, safely out of range of both human and electronic observation. Then, Omi or Aya could feel out the perimeter for alarms or booby-traps. Yohji would want to set up cameras aimed at the windows, as well as actual surveillance, until they had a feel for the numbers and interior placements.

_Fuck that…_ he growled under his breath. Ken pounded his closed fist on the side of the container of earth. Yeah, sure, data was great, but his friends were worn thin from emotional stresses and perpetually looking over their shoulders. The assholes needed to be taken down, and taken down _now_.

The clock was ticking not only on how long Weiss could last before exhaustion led to a fatal mistake, but sooner or later, the buyers and the sellers of the classified information would manage to hook up. And once that happened, there'd be no more chances to stop them.

Ken cupped a hand around his mic, activating it. "Yo. Abyssinian. Call the team back to the van. Meeting in an hour. Got it?"

"Understood." Protocol said that longer reports were to be made in person, and the others would assume that the recall meant that Ken had the goods. Now, he just had to make sure that he did. A stubborn scowl tightened his jaw; Ken was used to being considered the klutz of the team, the butt of jokes… but he wasn't stupid. He knew his stuff, and he _would_ do this.

The dark-clad assassin dashed across his roof-top, taking advantage of the reinforced palms of his finger-less gloves to slide down the fire ladder at speed. He dropped noiselessly to the cracked concrete fronting the dumpsters, and headed off to circumnavigate the block. Memory told him that the street jogged, widening for truck-access to a warehouse, and there'd be enough cover for him to cross the street.

* * *

Thoroughly winded, the ex-jock was the last one to scale the junk-yard's fence, vaulting from its top into the tangled shadows left by a security flood-light shining over top of the wreckage. Ken winced; Omi was going to be worried, and hence pissed, that he was late. Especially since he was the one who'd called the meeting. Jogging, Ken openly approached the vehicle's hiding place, counting on one of the others to correctly ID him as 'friend,' and not 'foe.' 

Sure enough, Yohji popped open the van's back door, and Omi dragged the unresisting brunet into the darkened interior. As soon as the panel was shut, Aya restored the blue, underwater glow, and Ken was subjected to the three-way glower of his companions. Omi perched on a tiny stool next to Aya's rolling chair, while Yohji, coveralls pushed down to his waist in response to the close air of the cramped van, sat on the floor against the metal equipment rack, long legs carelessly drawn up to support his elbows. Ken resisted the temptation to slink back outside, instead planting his rear against the closed door and staring back. "I got the intel." he said simply.

A breath gusted out of Omi, and their smallest member sagged. "Ken-kun…"

Ken held up a hand. "Don't say it. I know it was reckless and whatever, but I was there, and the chance was too good to pass up on. I got into the second floor of the place next door - it's a bunch of dinky offices, and nobody's there after business hours – and got a head-count. There's eight of 'em inside, plus two on guard. One's down in front of the bar, the other is at the closed-in end of the balcony on the second floor."

"That still leaves several unaccounted for." Flipping through the files, Aya handed Kritiker's estimation of the mercenaries' numbers to Omi, who barely glanced at it before passing the folder to Yohji. From his spot against the doors, Ken shrugged and sat down.

"It's still pretty early. Maybe some of them are out and about. I can draw you a sketch of the building interior, based on what I could see though the windows, and also the location of the alleys, and stuff?" Wordlessly, Yohji tossed him a small pad of paper and a pen. Catching them, Ken began roughing out the block that the bar was centered on, wincing at how his sketch more resembled a play diagram than a map. But none of the others complained, simply leaning in to watch as he drew and explained, "There's a back door on the rear, but it's one of those sheet-metal security things, and it probably opens into the back of the bar. No fire escapes, and probably no interior stairs, judging by the style and age of the structure. We're talking cheap, post-war construction, like most everything in Tanagawa."

"So…" Yohji squinted at the lines and angles. "Stairs and balcony squeezed in on the left, narrow alley on the right, separating it from the office place you were in. Bigger alley in the back, truck-usable with a careful driver, and an invitation to get stuck if you have a moron at the wheel. Guard on the balcony, and another out front. Pretty defensible, although their sight-lines have got to suck."

"Yeah. The nightclub was better." agreed Ken absently. He tore the first page off, passing it to Omi, and with his tongue between his teeth, began on the interior. "Looks like an office suite across the front, full width of the building, with a toilet squeezed in next, and then two smaller rooms with doors onto the balcony. There's a fifth room at the back, opens off of the middle one, not the balcony, and I think another bathroom, and maybe a closet. I could see doors here, and here--" He tapped the paper with his pen. "—But the space wasn't enough for a whole 'nother room."

"Cramped." Yohji opined. "Can't see them cramming a dozen people into five rooms. The others have got to be somewhere else."

"Probably." Nodding, Omi took the pad of paper, jotting notes in the margin. "They're smart, and experienced. I'll bet a couple of them have very legit covers, and are working on making contact with whoever it is in the press, and presumably taking care of other aspects of their business. These will be mainly their muscle. Ken-kun, could you mark where you observed people? And also the relation of doors and windows in the building that you were in next door?" As commanded, the Hunter scooted closer, inadvertently pressing against a certain redhead's knee. His brain sputtered to a halt, only regaining the power to think when Omi poked him in the forehead with the pen. Painful heat flooded Ken's face as he glanced up and caught his best friend staring at him with sad sympathy. He snatched back the pad of paper and retreated to his place against the doors, hoping that the weird lighting would hide his embarrassment, but equally sure that all it would do would be to make him look like an eggplant. Desperate, he dragged his thoughts back on track.

"Uh… yeah. I think I can ID some of them out of Manx's data, too."

A grin brightened the tactician's features. "Really? Oh, that would be wonderful news, Ken-kun!" Omi reached for his laptop across Aya, ignoring the swordsman's faintly annoyed grimace, and plopped back down onto his stool. Typing rapidly, he said, "Manx-san estimated their force at a maximum of thirty, and confirmed eleven kills. I would guess that they lost a few more, but on the other hand, any injured have probably returned to active by now… say realistically that they have twelve to fifteen people left. You counted eight at Matsushita's bar. That leaves four to seven unaccounted for." He paused to pop in the cd that they'd gotten from their handler, bringing up the grid of mug shots. Out of the corner of his eye, Ken saw Aya's supple mouth thin down into a hard, angry line at those who were obviously dead, but the man held his peace as Omi spun the laptop about on his knee.

Hesitantly, Ken said, "Okay… you remember Manx said there was a guy from some group called Glowing Path--"

" 'Shining Path.' " the blond interrupted helpfully. It's called 'Shining Path.' Yes, I remember. He's this one--" Using the laptop's touch pad upside down and backwards didn't slow him down; Omi located and clicked on the desired icon in a heartbeat, bringing up the bland, middle-aged face. Ken nodded vigorously.

"Yeah, him. I remember thinking the South American Asian thing was kind of weird, so he stuck in my head. And there was a woman there, too. I _know_ I've seen her before." Ken said eagerly. Doubtful, Omi tilted the screen so that they could see it better.

"I don't know, Ken-kun. Manx-san said that this Chinese woman was dead." He clicked on the thumbnail, opening the picture, but Ken shook his head emphatically.

"No, not her. There was another woman. Scroll down." Insistent, he started to climb over Yohji's long legs, winning himself an amused snort from the playboy, and a lingering caress on the butt. Ken squawked, throwing himself backwards as Yohji merely smirked and wriggled his fingers invitingly.

"Boys…" Omi said reprovingly. But his attention was only half on the scuffle as he frowned at the computer's screen. Finally, the smaller blond cleared his throat, adjusting his laptop again. "I'm impressed, Ken-kun. You were right, there was another woman in the list of possible associates. Is this the one you saw?"

Squinting, the jock stared. It figured that Omi would ask – after all, making sure of data was part of his job – the problem was on Ken's side. He just didn't trust his memory the way the others did. But it _did_ look like the person he'd seen… "Does it say she's got a scar on her arm? About here--?" He traced a comma-shaped mark just above and behind his elbow, and waited impatiently while his teammate read the scanty details.

"Yup. Knife wound." Omi confirmed. "Well, I think that makes it definite; these are our guys."

"Shit… that's almost too easy." groused the other blond. Yohji hung a cigarette between his lips, and started a bit as the others all stared at him with varying degrees of hostility. "What? I'm not going to _light_ it." he protested. Omi rolled his eyes.

"I was thinking about your crack that this is too easy, Yohji-kun. I'd hardly say that everything we've been through has been _easy._ We've worked extremely hard to get this far – alive – and I for one do not intend to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Yohji snickered. "You do know where that saying comes from, don't you? It was the Greeks, who sent a giant horse to the Trojans. Except, the Trojans _should_ have looked. It would have saved them from getting caught with their pants down."

"I thought ancient Greeks didn't wear pants." Grinning, Omi lobbed the verbal grenade back. Yohji laughed out loud, and ceded the point with the doffing of an imaginary hat. Bemused, Ken shook his head, stealing another glance at the unhappy redhead sitting with arms folded and a glower on his beautiful face. Given the adrenaline high that went with being actively on a mission instead of sitting around and waiting, it was understandable that the blonds were back to their good-natured teasing, but it bothered him to see Aya revert to type like that. Ken suddenly, intensely _missed_ the moments of intimacy, and it hurt to think that he might never get another chance.

Because sooner or later, one of them would say the inevitable, and he'd be siding with them against Aya.

"Well, getting back to what you said _before_ the discussion of Greeks and getting them out of their pants–" Yohji snickered as Omi blushed scarlet and garbled out a protest. "–If we can eliminate the ones Kenken spotted, the odds suddenly get much, much better."

"Should we?" forgetting the teasing, Omi turned serious. "It might drive the remainder underground."

"Nah… I think they have too much invested to ditch. More like, it might bring the bosses out where we could get a crack at them. They weren't there, were they Ken? Ken…?"

Miserable, the younger man stared down at his clenched fists, refusing to look at Yohji… or at Aya. That wonderful, vibrant baritone that Ken wished more than anything would speak to him in passion, with warmth, and affection, said coldly, "You're planning on killing them. You're going to 'eliminate' the subordinates, just to force the bosses out of hiding, so you can mur--"

Ken jerked as if each word were a physical blow, his head finally snapping up as he surged onto one knee, shouting, "Shut the fuck up! What do y--" A lean hand slapped across his mouth, shocking him into silence. Yohji's bottle green eyes glittered dangerously as he said quietly, "Whoa, Kenken. This is a good location we're in, but we don't want to attract attention by _yelling_, now do we?" Stricken, the brunet deflated, anger gone as readily as it had come, and he sagged down into a huddle on the floor. But Yohji wasn't finished yet. The blond addressed Aya, tone gone even softer and more unyielding.

"Those 'subordinates' you're feeling such sympathy for, did you actually bother to read the profiles on them? We're not talking about some poor slobs who've been forced to do bad. These are mercenaries. Professional killers. Former death-squad members. People who think 'ethnic cleansing' is a new brand of shampoo." Yohji allowed his hand to fall away from where it had gagged Ken as he enumerated the traits of the people they were up against. "I respect your opinion, and you're entitled to keep it. But when it comes to dealing with these scumbags, you're _not_ entitled to get in our way, Aya. Do you get my drift?"

Sullenly, the redhead nodded, and Yohji gave him a dazzling, lop-sided grin. "Great. Now, I get the impression that Soccer Boy here was thinking about striking a blow for righteous living and clean underwear tonight. You willing to stay here and keep an ear glued to the police scanner? It would be a drag if the cops decided to lend a hand. Especially since we still don't know who it was that ratted us out last time."

"Fine. Whatever." Disgusted, Aya threw his hands up in a rare gesture of frustration. Ken watched, still silent, as the man turned his back, swiveling around to face the van's surveillance equipment.

It felt like someone was gouging out his heart.

* * *

It was stupid, considering that they'd _been_ a three-man team before Aya had joined Weiss, but weirdly, nothing was working right. It felt like how Ken imagined it must feel to suddenly be a three-legged dog; it was possible to hobble around, but damned awkward. 

Of course, canine amputees generally didn't have anyone trying to _shoot_ them.

Heart beating triple-time – and wasn't that appropriate? – Ken flattened himself against the wall and tried to catch his breath, his borrowed pistol clutched in both hands and pointed at the ceiling. The idea hadn't been a bad one; the enemy was wisely enough watching the stairs and doors of their building. The cheap, dark brown tile roof was sloped, slippery, and would make too damned much noise to break through. But the gap between the bar's building and the closed-up offices was something in the neighborhood of just under six feet, and the crippled dog could probably jump it. They hadn't even had to jump. Omi had loaded his crossbow with a barbed bolt that expanded on impact, supplied by Kritiker for the sort of occasion where a strong anchor was vital. The nylon cord attached to its end was the kind used in mountaineering, and more than up to the job of supporting a stealthy Hunter across the small gap from point A to point B. The only problem was that the first person through the window across the alley had set off an alarm. Of course Omi hadn't picked up its electronic signature – a string of tin cans tied to the window sash didn't _have_ a signature.

It wasn't much consolation that it had been Yohji, either. The older man immediately recognized what he was dealing with in the darkened room, making Ken wonder how he'd had experience with such low-tech warning systems, and launched himself at the connecting door to the rest of the upper floor. Yohji swore under his breath as he jammed a wobbly straight-back chair under the knob of the western style door. It was a good thing that they'd picked the farthest back room, with no access to the balcony on the building's other side, because it limited the direction the targets could come from, and gave the remaining two Weiss enough time to zip across the gap.

The only problem was that the targets had no interest in coming in; black holes appeared in the door as silenced rounds punched through the flimsy wood and buzzed angrily across the room, trapping the invaders.

Omi slid against the wall beside Ken, whispering, "Good thing this is the plumbing wall. It's thicker." Ken rolled his eyes.

"Oh, that's a big load off my mind." he snarled back. "Considering we were trying to sneak up on them."

"Yes. Well." The petit teen coughed politely. From the other side of the door, Yohji hissed when a bullet splintered the wood frame just above his head.

"So, kids. Do we retreat?" But before they could second the motion, the _pffft_ of a shot through the open window made the playboy say regretfully, "Forget I said that."

Ken groaned. They should have figured that these people would respond swiftly and with deadly force. Weiss was used to catching people off guard. On the rare occasion they tangled with body guards, or hired security, the opposition didn't have an assassin's mind-set. They hesitated to eliminate threats, reacting defensively instead of offensively. These guys, on the other hand, shot first and skipped the questions altogether. They recognized that the building next door was their weakest point, and moved to control it, thereby pinning the invaders under the cross-fire. As a strategy went, it was perfect. Omi poked him in the ribs, passing him a small flash grenade. "Ken-kun, Yohji-kun. This type of building usually has an access panel into the crawl space under the roof. It should be in the closet behind you, Yohji. We go up and hit them from above, and Ken, you open the door and throw this. They don't know how many of us there are, so it should possible to take them by surprise."

Before their tactician had even finished speaking, Yohji rolled onto his belly and eased open the sliding closet door. "Damn futons." he muttered, but then he was moving, a lithe shadow that boosted itself into the closet's upper half. Muffled, he called softly, "Omitchi. It's here." The little blond patted Ken's arm and streaked across, grabbing Yohji's outstretched hand and vanishing into the denser darkness. The sliding door rasped shut.

Heart hammering, Ken muttered, "Shit." and kicked the braced chair. The door exploded inwards, half torn from its hinges as several slugs ripped through it at once. He lobbed the cylinder of the grenade back through, clapping his gloved hands over his ears as he flattened to the floor. Omi tended to think small, given that attracting attention in an urban setting was a bad thing, but the concussive blast still packed a wallop.

Shielded from the blinding light by the ceiling, Omi took advantage of the instant of confusion to crash through the thin drywall, raining white dust and bits of pink insulation into the middle room. A bolt from his crossbow pierced a man's throat, just above his white shirt collar, staining it dark. Yohji braced his feet on the rafters to either side of the hole, playing out a whip-sawing strand of wire to catch the lone woman by the throat. She thrashed, trying to both get her fingers inside the choking loop and to bring her automatic to bear. The blond wrenched her off her feet, anchoring the wire on an unseen beam above as he sent another loop sailing toward a Korean man who was firing blindly as he scrubbed at his tearing eyes. From his position prone on the floor, Ken risked squeezing off an unsilenced shot at a fourth mercenary, sending him spinning to the floor covered in blood.

They were racing the clock now, having lost both the advantage of surprise, and the bar's patrons below _had _to notice the thudding of bodies and heavy footsteps overhead. Not to mention that gunshot. And there were four of the mercenaries left. Assuming that the guys on guard duty were still on the steps and in front of the building, that left two across the alley, behind the Hunters' backs. They hadn't fired on the bar building in a couple of minutes, probably lacking a clear target, but it was only a matter of time before they moved. Running through every swear-word that he knew, Ken rolled back toward the exterior of the room, pulling himself up to squat against the wall. He couldn't see or hear his partners, but it figured that they'd be going after the guy on the balcony, assuming that he was standing his ground to guard against unknown threats from that direction. If they were fast enough, they might nail him before the enemy could regroup and consolidate. Siberian would play rearguard, preventing the other side from sliding across the rope and doing the same thing to Weiss.

It was as if thinking it was some kind of a summoning spell. Ken heard the soft _thump_ of an impact against the outside wall, and had less than a second to prepare before two forms rocketed through the window, splitting to right and left. He fired at the one coming his way, the extreme short range putting the bullet clear through the man's upper chest and not doing anywhere near enough damage to kill or incapacitate. Without thinking, the ex-goalie was diving _toward_ instead of away, rocketing through the mercenary's wide-planted legs and sending him sprawling off-balance into the empty middle of the room. Rolling, arms stiffly extended with the gun held in both hands, Ken landed on his back with the weapon nearly thrust into target number two's groin. He pulled the trigger, and tried to block out the screams.

_That makes three shots, _he thought, half-deafened by the loud noise. Blood was splattered all over from the last one, and he still had to finish off the guy's partner before he managed—

Dazed, the prone brunet couldn't say what instinct had made him lash out suddenly with both feet, but it worked. His assailant's knee bent the wrong way as the man crashed backwards over the fallen chair, reducing the wobbly piece of furniture to kindling for good. The gunshot tore a ragged furrow through the worn linoleum inches from Ken's ear, passing through into Matsushita's bar.

Even if the owner was one of the Hot Body's extended family, there was a limit to how long the rumpus upstairs would be ignored. Of course, it might not matter if the chair leg being swung with vicious force at his head connected. Ken rolled again, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder that numbed the joint. Not exactly a fair trade, as he supposed he'd done more damage than he'd taken. Ken landed a kick that would have made his old coach proud, finishing off the damaged knee and sending the shadowed figure flying. The follow-up tackle would have gotten him banned from any playing field, but Ken didn't care; there was a roaring in his ears, and the pounding of blood in his temples as he gathered his feet under him and launched.

They ricocheted off the splintered doorframe, and half fell into the light of the smaller middle room, raising a cloud of plaster dust when they rolled across the mess left by Omi and Yohji. His opponent was barely Ken's height, wiry with deceptively thin ropes of muscle that twisted like snakes under the ball player's straining fingers. The brunet landed briefly on top, ducking his chin to his chest to block a stiff fingered thrust at his trachea, and retaliated by driving the top of his hard head into the squirming man's chin, snapping his jaw shut with painful force. They grappled, struggling for ascendancy, and Ken realized with sinking horror that he was seriously out-matched; this guy had him beat in skill and strength, and only the steady flow of blood from his wound, and the dragging weight of his crippled leg gave Ken any advantage at all.

Pins and needles shot through the Hunter's shoulder, making him grit his teeth at the unintentional agony. The round-faced man pinned under him felt the weakening of Ken's grip and seized the opportunity to return the head-butt, flipping them over. One elbow ground into Ken's throat as the guy scrabbled in the gore and wreckage, at last finding the gun belonging to a downed comrade. The elongated barrel smacked the thrashing assassin along side of his skull, splitting the skin. Stunned, Ken lost his grip, flopping back.

Casualties happened. That Weiss had been lucky, and every loss on every mission had been to the other side, hadn't escaped the gasping brunet's notice. No one had a right to expect favors like that all the time. It ran out. And this time, unlike the fire, there wouldn't be a last-minute rescue; no Aya armed with explosives to create an escape route where none existed.

Ken was shit out of luck.

He couldn't even suck in a decent breath, choking on crumbled drywall and a bruised throat. No grand gestures, no final words, the round black hole of the muzzle staring down at him. For a freezing instant, there wasn't a single thought in Ken's brain, nothing at all. Then time started again with the crash of the outer door rebounding off the wall, and the flat bark of a small caliber handgun. The guy on top of Ken spun half about, one side of his skull exploding to splatter the Hunter with brain matter and blood, Yohji shouting, "You fuckin' son of a bitch!"

Not Aya.

* * *

"This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper." From T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." 


	22. Chapter 22

**_Reflections: Extremes _**

**_Chapter 22 _**_

* * *

_

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

_Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought._

_**Author's Note:** Under normal circumstances, I hate it when writers use this space to make excuses for why they've blown off a fic… Life happens, deal with it. But now, having said that, I'm in the awkward position of feeling like I **do** owe at least a little bit of an explanation to all the wonderful people who've been emailing me in the past months. Yes, I'm (hopefully) going to finish Reflections, Monozuki, and my FMA fic, Rain. And no, I don't know how long it will take. _

_What happened is this: I've been diagnosed with cancer. The surgery was at the beginning of March, and I'm in chemo therapy right now. When that ends in July, I'll be starting radiation. Beyond that, it's very much a wait and see kind of situation. Even when it doesn't make me sick, I'm finding that my mind isn't in the right place for writing. I **want **to, but the words just don't come out the fingers, and I have trouble juggling the clues and making the story gel. The past few days are the first time in a long time that I've dusted Reflections off, and actually felt like working on it._

_So, you have my apologies, folks. Don't give up hope – I actually do have an ending outlined. I will try to get there one of these days._

_And, again, I want to thank CGay, Teresa, Lita and Kelly for beta-ing above and beyond the call of duty. Your comments and insights into the plot and character interactions leave me humbled. Thanks also to those patient folks who've been reading and commenting without me groveling. I appreciate you, as well. Any remaining mistakes are all my fault._

_Lisa_

_P.S. To the person who asked if I was Indian… Um, no. Although that's the most creative guess I've had. I'm Danish, but I've been living in the U.S. for a reeeeeeaally long time. My first language is Danish, but English is now my primary._

* * *

"God-damned, fuckin' son of a bitch." Yohji repeated, striding into the ringing silence. Coughing, Ken rolled onto his hands and knees, automatically checking the splattered mess next to him for vital signs while bottling the urge to gibber _not Aya!_ up in a dark corner of his mind. Aya had not come, would not come… There would be no rescues from that side, not ever again. Instead, his blond teammate echoed Ken's actions, callously examining the other bodies strewn about the room. "Got the recall." he snapped tersely. "Cops'll be here any second. Where's your headset?" Bending, he scooped the matte-black piece of plastic from the floor as he spoke, answering his own question. Ken patted his ear, belatedly noting that he _wasn't_ wearing it.

"Christ…" muttering, he staggered to his feet, staring around the room. They'd all worn gloves, so no risk there, and the footprints and smears crisscrossing the upstairs were nothing readily identifiable. The lanky blond planted a foot on the chest of Omi's first victim, yanking the crossbow bolt from its throat, then shoving the muzzle of his backup weapon into the hole. He fired, obliterating the wound's distinctiveness. The ones killed by his wire got only cursory glances; the watch was a unique item, but death by garrote wasn't. There wasn't time to do anything more, and cleaning up the scene by fire or explosion was out – too many civilians, too close quarters… and they didn't have the necessary supplies, anyhow. Ken followed as the blond jogged back toward their initial entry point, the habitual laziness forgotten in the need to get clear before the police arrived.

"Bombay's already yanked the anchor out of the wall and reeled up the rope, so we're gonna have to jump it. You up to it?" he asked over his shoulder. Ken shrugged painfully.

"I guess. Or you can lower me to the alley and I'll go from there…?" There was an overwhelming _itch_ to strip off his bloody gear, but the trash bags were waiting across the way in the office building. It was one of those catch-22 things… they needed to get rid of the wearable evidence, but could ill afford the time to take care of it.

Omi was also waiting, pale face anxious. He'd popped out the sliding pane from its casement, making the target opening as big as possible. Which was still smaller than Ken would have liked. Groaning, every ache coming home to roost now that the adrenaline was fading, the athlete eyed the gap. The only thing in his favor was that his shoulder wasn't dislocated or anything, and in point of fact, he'd felt worse after playing that exhibition game against a Manchester team. He hopped up onto the narrow sill of their side, coiling the powerful muscles in his calves and thighs, and sprang. He shot through the hole on the other side, tucking and rolling like he was supposed to, and biting off a yelp of agony when he landed on what was sure to be one Hell of a bruise. As Ken cleared, Yohji followed, somehow making his lean length graceful. The former detective was on his feet before Ken could get oriented, helping the other blond replace the window sash and obliterating any trace that they'd come this way. The furniture that Omi had shifted out of the way went back onto the dents in the worn carpeting, concealing an errant smudge of blood left by their messy mission garb.

"Gotta go." grunted Yohji, stripping off his coveralls. They joined Omi's windbreaker and he tied off that bag efficiently. The smaller tactician helped Ken peel away his grungy jeans, bagging them as well, as he handed over a box of wet-wipes for the brunet to clean off as much of his face as possible. The point where the gun barrel had split the skin stung, but the wound was shallow and the bleeding had slowed to an ooze. But that wasn't what bothered Ken; rather, it was Yohji's tightly down-turned mouth, and the way he avoided eye contact with them.

"What the fuck's eating you?" Hopping on one leg as he dragged on worn but far less attention-grabbing clean pants, Ken glared at the older assassin. A jittery playboy was a worrisome thing, and he didn't like it. The younger man was tempted to dig in his heels and refuse to move, but the worried look on Omi's features convinced him that it would be a bad idea.

Yet the answer when it came was less than helpful. "Abyssinian said the Tanuki is with 'em." The clipped response confused him until Ken connected the nickname with Yohji's old contact among the cops.

"Why? This oughta look like a turf war gone bad." He trotted after the others as they hurried out of the office and down the back stairs. Sirens were clearly audible, and they needed to be across the larger alley and into the empty warehouse that squatted there _before_ troops moved into position. They'd plotted a route that zigzagged between places that were devoid of life, all the better to avoid having a civilian see them leaving the scene of the crime, but it would be stupid to not be careful.

"Dunno. Could be he's just watching anything to do with Tanagawa, what with the political pressure on him to solve the original prostitution ring case. Could be something else." The man's tone emphatically did not encourage further discussion, and Ken hesitated, reluctant to provoke him by giving voice to the thought that immediately popped into his head: _What if Detective Tsanakia is here to do damage control?_

They knew already that there was a leak somewhere in the police force, and who better than the lead investigator? Omi, who'd kept his mouth shut for the entire discussion, shot him an apprehensive, big-blue-eyes look that could have melted stone, then dashed across the alley and into the next building on their escape route. Ken followed, automatically keeping his head down, even when the distant barking of a dog made him flinch. In spite of everything, his lips thinned in annoyance, and he could have kicked himself. They'd taken on a superior force, and against the odds come out alive. Recklessly taken them on, and miraculously survived… and a lot of the recklessness was his fault. If the police detective found anything useful, it would all be because of a certain hot-headed soccer player.

Inside the hushed darkness of the abandoned warehouse, Ken leaned to one side of the battered door, catching his breath as he waited for Yohji to join them, and turned it over in his head. Really, the three of them shouldn't have been able to take down eight professionals, and come out of it in one piece. And he was the one who'd insisted that Weiss hit them without spending any more precious time on prepping. What the fuck had he been thinking?

The answer, of course, was that he _hadn't_ been thinking. Far easier to avoid considering what was coming in the near future if they survived this screwed-up disaster, to give in to the urge to slash and burn mindlessly, letting the berserker in his soul take control with what was becoming frightening ease.

But on the flip side, if they _had_ waited, worn down as they were, the Hunters would have ended up as the prey. The mercenaries had been on the ground in Tanagawa for weeks, and had gotten used to the territory. That familiarity had bred contempt for the sheep around them. If they hadn't consistently underestimated Ken's companions, the Kritiker team would be the ones cooling in the morgue by now. Now that he was starting to use his head for something besides hanging a hat on, it hurt to think how close he and his friends had come to losing.

By rights, Ken ought to be the one dead on the floor; he _deserved_ it.

Yohji and Omi carefully re-locked the heavy steel door, and then the three of them were flitting through the darkness, their rubber soled shoes barely audible in the echoing emptiness. The route back to the junkyard wasn't as well planned as the smaller blond's usual, but the cops weren't likely to be able to get a bead on them. The combination of a poor economy and having out-lived its usefulness made Tanagawa perfect for people who weren't really supposed to exist. This one building, for example, would take them most of a block away from the bar, while keeping them invisible to the cops. They detoured around the heavy steel posts that supported the invisible roof high above, reaching the small office area that fronted onto the next street over. There wasn't a cop in sight. At least, not yet. Sirens were approaching rapidly from several directions as the first responders had undoubtedly had time to call for both for backup and for emergency rescue vehicles.

Ken dropped down to squat on his heels, back resting lightly against the scuffed plasterboard wall, and waited for the flashing red and white glow that leaked between the sheets of plywood covering the plate glass windows to recede. Small flashlight gripped in his mouth, Omi sidled over and began probing at his aching shoulder. The small, deft fingers, together with the comically intent expression on a dirty pixie face, sent a stab of residual lust straight to Ken's groin. Knowing that it was just the leftover nerves from the fight didn't make it any easier to resist the temptation to nuzzle into the thin column of the boyish neck. Instead, Ken batted away his friend's hands, growling softly. Omi rocked back onto his haunches, staring intently in the bright spot of light. He doused the flashlight.

"Ken-kun…" the teen said softly, dimly seen hand reaching out, before falling down into his lap. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Frustrated into inarticulacy, Ken snatched up the black cylinder of the flashlight and took a look for himself, grunting with relief to find his hide unbroken. His skin was still buzzing and it took an effort to sit still when what he really wanted was to pry open the boarded up doors and run. Christ, what was getting into him? Flipping the switch to 'killer' from 'florist' was an unnaturally natural part of their existence as Hunters, but distantly Ken could tell that he'd – no, they _all_ had – slipped a little farther across the divide than normal. And it ought to bug the Hell out of him that he could do so, so easily. Wisely, Omi said nothing but simply eased down to sit cross-legged on dusty tile, simply waiting for Ken's volatile temper to settle a bit.

For his part, Yohji rolled his shoulders to loosen the kinks, and remarked in something approaching his normal drawl, "Okay, kids. Coast is clear." Omi immediately bounced to his feet, dashing over to unbolt the exit from the inside, so that he could wriggle a thin hand through and pick the padlock securing the blatantly obvious, rusty chain looped through the door handles on the outside. Then the blond teen fidgeted impatiently until the older pair was out, until the door chained up again, proclaiming to the world that no one had come _that_ way.

"Next place has a working incinerator." he murmured, taking back the trash bag that Ken had automatically picked up. Yohji slung the other one casually onto his shoulder, thumb of his other hand hooked carelessly into his front jeans pocket, and led the way diagonally across the lonely street and into the dark mouth of another alley. On their way to the bar, the tall playboy had half-unscrewed the only bulb, and it was still out. Who would have fixed it? There wasn't a single sign of life. Working by touch, Yohji had the lock picked and the door open in a heartbeat, and ushered his team through with a barely seen, ironic bow. Ken was peripherally aware that their tactician was watching the PI and him like a hawk, probably anticipating a breakdown from the more highly strung men, and it was annoying. Still, in the interests of keeping what little peace was left, the ball player shrugged it off, mouthing, _for the good of the team._

But he wasn't really sure how much longer he'd be able to keep that fiction going without saying 'what fucking team?' Unaccountably, the stress Ken felt transformed into an unreasonable, simmering anger; he could see that it was unreasonable, but was powerless to rein in the loathing he suddenly felt toward not only the smirking idiot holding the door, but also his best friend.

And toward himself.

This factory was still in use, although quiet and dark for the night. There was an indefinable difference to the silence, more of a waiting for returning life than permanent desolation. Their door opened into a concrete floored and walled corridor with a time clock and a wall rack of stiff paper cards, each bearing the name of a blue collar worker. Beyond, dimly lit by a red 'exit' sign, the hall opened into a wide floor populated by the shadowy shapes of machines: drill press and die punch, big rollers, and spools of wire and thin sheet steel. Omi had earlier disabled the aged security alarms and there was no watchman on duty, leaving Weiss alone in possession of the refuge. When they were gone, Ken knew that it would be as if restless ghosts had flitted through; Omi would reconnect the severed wires as they had been before. But for now, they could use the tiny washroom and dispose of the bloodied clothing, could catch their breaths and relax a little. The solid walls cut off what little outside sound there was, giving the illusion that they had all the time they could possibly want.

Seizing the opportunity while the brunet was wool-gathering, Omi shoved his trash bag at Yohji, and towed Ken into the lavatory, tersely ordering him to strip off his shirt. Blinking, the jock tried to dig in his heels once the words sank in, but it did no good.

"I said 'off.' " Omi snapped.

"What the fuck for?" Ken replied belligerently. In the light of the single, naked bulb swaying overhead, the streaks left by rivulets of sweat in the plaster dust on the shorter teen's face should have been laughable, but Omi's jaw was clenched and the Pacific blue eyes narrowed accusingly. Automatically, Ken's fingers began fumbling with the buttons fastening the shirt he wore over his black turtleneck. When he peeled that off as well and Omi's glare finally relented, Ken protested weakly, "Come on, Omi… It's not _that_ bad…"

"You let me be the judge of that." the younger Hunter snapped tartly. But the cold fingers prodding at the swollen and discolored flesh were gentle. Relieved, he said softly, "Feels like just soft tissue damage, but the timing sucks. We've got to finish this off, and it's going to be tough without you."

"Hm." Tired eyes slipping closed, Ken leaned his forehead against his friend's and let the chilly touch sooth him. "Feels good," he mumbled. "I'll be okay. Used to play with lots worse than this."

"Ken-kun. This isn't soccer. They're going to be trying to kill us." Under the scolding tone was amusement.

"Ha. You've obviously never played Manchester." the athlete grumbled half-heartedly. He was not only physically weary, but sick to death of the whole situation. "I was thinking about them earlier… funny, but I thought we'd have another chance at beating them, but then the scandal hit the news… I never got a second chance."

"Ken…" Omi's light alto sounded as if he were close to tears of exhaustion himself, but before the older youth could turn the conversation around into a joke, he was tasting drywall and sweat, and feeling chapped lips pressing urgently against his. Startled, Ken almost over-balanced, and ended up bracing one hand to the doorframe while the fingers of the other spread wide to cradle the back of Omi's skull. The blood was pounding under his suddenly too tight skin when the frailer teen whimpered and opened his mouth to the teasing of Ken's tongue. There was desperation, and a clumsy urgency… one of those 'carpe diem' things that earnest and thoughtful Omi never indulged in… But they were. Ken's thigh was slipping between his friend's, and the whimpers had become a low, hungry whine.

"And you guys ride me about _my_ sex life…?" The scent of tobacco accompanied the lazy drawl as the two nearly fell over the lid-less toilet in their haste to disentangle themselves. Yohji leaned negligently against the wall just outside, cigarette dangling as he flicked invisible lint off of his snug black vest. Blushing and furious, Omi surprised Ken by hissing, "Fuck off, Yohji-kun!" and storming out of the cramped washroom. The older blond gave a humorless bark of laughter, languidly drawing himself erect and turning to follow. "And here I was just coming to tell you that I was done playing with matches, Omitchi." Ken stared after them, finally rubbing the back of a shaking hand across his mouth.

What the heck had just happened?

It wasn't as if he had never gotten a wholly inappropriate rush from a mission before; that sort of thing happened whenever emotions were high. Thinking back on his soccer career, it had been one of the things that the other players joked about, and sometimes even did something about. And the same applied to the wire man, who often disappeared to let off steam at some club or other. But Omi had never come on to _anyone_ before, as far as Ken knew. If anything, Omi buried himself in the most normal and mundane things he could find, like homework and his cd-player.

Was it because of Aya?

Wincing, Ken hastily dragged his turtleneck back over his head, cursing as his too long hair caught in the collar, and dashed after the slight figure. He ignored the low, knowing chuckle from the playboy bastard, cornering his friend by the roll-up dock door at the far end of the machine shop. "Omi!" he called urgently, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything." Parroting Ken's earlier protest, the slim teenager gave a dry half-laugh, half sob. "It's all falling apart, and I have no idea what to do."

"Omi," sighed Ken. He forcibly turned his friend around, wrapping his good arm around the narrow shoulders, pulling the small form against his chest. "Don't. Don't obsess about it. We'll find a way to make it work. I promise."

"How can you, when we both know that fail or succeed, we still end up losing?"

For that, Ken knew, there was no real answer that he could give.

* * *

Calling it déjà vu was an understatement. Here he was, back in the van, sitting in basically the same spot again with his butt on the scratched and dented metal floor, and his back against the exposed framing of the rear doors. Ken shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache that had spread all the way down to his lower spine, and wished that the mild painkillers Omi had fed him would hurry up and kick in.

The cramped space reeked. It wasn't just the expected sweat/grime/blood stench he was accustomed to thinking of as 'post-mission-ew-need-a-shower.' Weiss didn't normally go in for firearms, so the addition of burnt powder lent an indefinable _something_ to the mix. Ken had – once, when he was first recruited by Kritiker – referred to _that_ as 'the smell of cordite' and gotten smacked up the back of the head by his instructor and told that that was a newbie's mistake. But he wasn't quite sure what else the acrid smell could be described as. And, of course, lazy Yohji picked guns as one of the few things he would get obsessive about, and the added aroma of cleaning solvents was making the brunet's head swim.

And there wasn't even a window that he could risk opening.

The low murmur of Omi's voice filling Aya in on what he'd observed at the bar washed over Ken, and he let his throbbing head fall back against the bare metal. At least it was cool, even if it wasn't comfortable. There was a soft _clink_ and a grunt as Yohji dropped something or other from his cleaning kit, and Ken pried his eyes open to stare at the blond's intent features. Without the ever-present sun glasses, and with his hair cropped short, the man looked less like a playboy, and more the professional investigator he could have been, had not a case gone bad and Kritiker interfered.

Ken _knew_ that he was being broody and off-kilter too, but he couldn't help it. The whole mission had just felt _wrong_, what with Aya opting out. Before the abduction and their enforced flight, there had been times when one or the other of the team had chosen not to participate, but that was different. Here, now, when they'd started bonding on a personal level, taking on a major target one short had been the wrong thing to do. His gaze settled onto Aya, dark hair turned purple in the aquatic light, and Ken bit the inside of his cheek to contain the frantic 'why!' that threatened to burst out of him. Aya chose that exact instant to glance up, meeting Ken's pleading brown eyes with his own, inscrutable silence.

_Of course the asshole isn't going to say anything; he never does._ A bitter surge of rage flooded through Ken, and the assassin ground his teeth until he tasted blood. Why the Hell would Aya care that his absence had nearly cost his team their lives? Soon to be 'former team,' at that.

Shit. His hands were shaking, curling into fists with the burning desire to pound a reaction out of that beautiful face. It was almost a relief to be able to shift his focus back onto Yohji when the lanky assassin tossed him the cleaning kit, saying, "Your turn, Soccer Boy. Don't want a misfire, do we?" with exactly the kind of leer that turned the most rational, everyday conversations into a minefield of innuendo.

"Yohji-kun, stop it." Omi, too tired to put his usual, courteous 'please' on the order, interrupted. "Aya-kun, tell them what you showed me." The older man inclined his head, blue light shimmering on the softness of his hair. With an effort, Ken shunted the immediate pang of longing off to join the need for physical violence, settling for a final glare at the smirking playboy. Yohji waggled his fingers insultingly, and grinned with a nasty, feral edge that did bad things to Ken's blood pressure, but he held tight to the idea that Aya might have learned something useful. At last, the older blond rolled his eyes, subsiding bonelessly against the equipment rack, somehow managing to look comfortable as he did so. But the bruised tightness around his weirdly underwater, blue-green eyes, and the pinched line of his mouth signaled that even a cigarette wouldn't be enough to calm the man down. He was spoiling for a fight, too.

Aya, of course, ignored the warning signs, saying in his level, unemotional voice, "During the second excursion to the police, my purpose was to monitor cell phone activity. At the time, I gathered a great deal of data, but was unable to analyze it when you, Omi, and you, Yohji, were captured." At the bald statement, Yohji flinched and Ken was reminded of the blond's nearly suicidal behavior; Yohji hadn't expected to survive his ordeal. By the cool intensity of the stare Aya fixed on the oldest of their group, he knew it as well, but he made no comment on it. "The information remained on the laptop. This time, when the bar's owner telephoned the police, an outgoing call was made nearly immediately from the station back to a cell number. The identity of the caller is still unknown, but by comparing to what we had from the earlier attempt, I was able to fix the recipient to a specific phone."

Baffled, Ken frowned at both the serious redhead and his grinning best friend. Omi especially seemed tickled, and that was the clue that finally let the jock say slowly, "You've got a solid lead to the rest of those guys, don't you?" Fierce joy blossomed in his gut, and he laughed, low and harsh. "Good. We'll be rid of the fuckers once and for all."

Yohji cut across him. "The one who made the call, do you think it could've been the Tanuki?"

Embarrassed, Omi said hastily, "We don't known that, Yohji-kun. It might not have been your frie--" Aya silenced him with a small gesture.

"Yes. I have no proof, but I think it likely. He mobilized immediately. The timing between the call to the station, the one back to the cell number, and Detective Tsanakia's departure with his forces is too close for anything else to be logical."

"Son of a bitch." Yohji swore. He jammed an unlit cigarette into his mouth, then yanked it out and crushed it in his fist, shedding bits of paper and tobacco across his lap. "I don't believe it," he snapped flatly. "Not the Tanuki."

"But it was with this possibility in mind that you asked me to monitor the police calls." Aya snapped back, the tarnished silver darkness of his eyes glittering as his temper began to fray in turn. "Even while you cling to the… 'nostalgia' of the good old days, of the life you had before Weiss, a part of you was aware that however lovely the apple, there could still be a worm hidden within. You spent two hours on the drive down persuading me that I had a duty to assist with this. I agreed to help. I did not agree to lie to you."

"Whoa! What?" Ken demanded. His world view underwent a sharp shift as he considered that it might not have been Omi's intent to keep _him_ away from the wire man, but rather to give the blond a chance to work on Aya uninterrupted that had led to Ken riding with his best friend. Now that he thought of it, it made loads of sense. There was no way that Yohji could _not_ take advantage of having Aya as a captive audience. And an appeal to duty was the one thing that would persuade the swordsman that his participation in the assault was necessary, no matter how little he liked the idea of slaughtering their opponents. It had worked when all of Ken's impassioned pleas had failed, and didn't that just leave the athlete with an acid burn behind his ribs?

Aya ignored him. "You insisted that this was not worth the effort of doing unless it were possible to eliminate the threat inherent in the stolen documents at the same time. I believe your wording was 'if we don't take down the source, someone else will just turn up to buy the goods?' "

The blond snapped back tiredly, "Yes, fuck, I remember what I said, all right?" There was none of his usual, languid grace as his hand fell unthinkingly onto his watch, just an unspoken warning to give the matter a rest.

Instinctively, Ken shifted, gathering himself to jump as needed, although in the close confines of the van it would be difficult to do much. And he wasn't sure what he _ought_ to do if it came down to that. He agreed with Yohji, but a tiny voice at the back of his brain was clamoring, _And how far do we take this? Until everyone is **dead**?_

Sensitive to the brewing argument, Omi hurriedly cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, Yohji-kun, the first step is still to find the mercenaries, right? They're smart enough to not have a phone with a GPS built into it, so we can only narrow their position down to a few square miles of the city. If they were moving, we'd be able to tell when they reach the boundary of one cell, because the switching system will hand off their signal to the next cell, but even that is of limited use. So instead, what I plan to focus on is listening in on the calls to and from that number. Thanks to Kritiker, we have both the software and the equipment to do that. It'll just take a little time." Eyes pleading for their patience and understanding, Omi waved vaguely at the racks of electronics crowding the van. Yohji nodded grudgingly, casually allowing his hands to fall into his lap as if that were what he'd intended all along, glancing across at Aya. The redhead also nodded, accepting the offered truce. Only Ken saw his best friend's face quiver, exhaustion and upset threatening to have the smallest and youngest of them break down and cry. But the teenager's voice was its normal, upbeat self as he suggested, "Ken-kun, Yohji-kun, why don't the two of you go to the sedan and get some sleep? I know it's not the most comfortable--" The implied apology made the PI grimace.

"Yeah, yeah… I wasn't expecting to still have to keep our heads down after tonight, either. But there ya go." His sour expression morphed into a smirk, as his tone became deliberately light, "But don't you want to go with Ken-chan first, Omitchi? You guys could finish what you started at the machine shop. I'm sure you'd feel better for a chance to let loose."

The unseen currents in the room made Ken's head spin. Omi blushed what would have been scarlet without the van's blue illumination, and squawked incoherently as the older blond's snicker turned into a malicious, out-loud laugh. It was obvious that Yohji hadn't stood down from the keyed-up state brought on by the fight, probably because he didn't regard it as _over_ yet. Ken was aware that he was quicker to anger, but also often the first to cool off.

Less likely to carry a chip on his shoulder.

He stole a glance at Aya, abruptly aware of the considering weight of his gaze. It made _him_ blush, and stammer, "N- nothing h- happened, Aya--"

The slim hand raised in front of him cut off the rest of his protestations. "I'm not the one that you need to justify your actions to. You're an adult, Ken. You make your own choices, and take responsibility for the results. I have no say in it."

Oddly, it seemed as if the swordsman were talking about other things, too, and Ken felt a flush of heat when he remembered that he'd never finished cleaning off the blood caked into his hair—both his own, and that of his last target.

Or was it victim?

Yohji was grumbling, "Come on, Ken-ken… let's leave the geniuses to their illegal wire tapping. I'm beat." As the light went out, making it safe for them to leave, Ken barely heard, sunk into humiliated self-inspection. He _had_ taken out his frustrations on their enemies, had gone at them the way he used to go at an opposing team on the soccer field. Except, the difference was that now his need to lash out resulted in people being _dead_. It was mortifying, even if Aya's cool gaze withheld judgement, pitilessly forcing the brunet assassin to be his own judge and jury…

To find himself wanting, with no one else to take the blame.

Ducking his head, Ken scrambled out of the vehicle, and set off for the other car. Yohji strolled in his wake, a soft-footed, ambling wraith in the dim, urban glow. But before Ken could ask his shadow if he had any preference, or call dibs on the reclining front passenger seat, a lean weight had him pressed against the side of the vehicle. "Shit--!" he gasped, and then a hand closed across his mouth, silencing him.

"Ken-ken… Gotta keep it quiet, remember?" Barely audible, the words and the hot breath that bore them tickled at the ends of the hair covering his ear, only to be followed by a quick, wet stroke.

"Fuck, Yotan! What--?" Shoving back, Ken managed to wriggle around to face his assailant and discovered that it left him bent dangerously backwards against the curved surface with Yohji's arms planted to either side, imprisoning him. The man's lower body was still pressed snuggly against him, and through their combined jeans, there was no doubt as to the lanky playboy's aroused state.

"What do you say? A little quid pro quo?" He gave a lazy thrust, rubbing full-length up Ken, and the brunet shuddered at how abso-fucking-lutely _fantastic_ it felt in his hyper-sensitive state.

But then his memory flashed first to how easily Aya had wrung a response from him in front of the mirror, waking a craving for more of the same mindlessly simple unwinding of his mental springs… then rapidly followed it with the astonishment of waking with the vulnerable redhead dead asleep next to him. _This **isn't** the same!_ Ken thought furiously, and his tongue stumbled over itself in his haste as he planted a hand in the middle of the wire man's chest, and pushed. "Y- Yotan! I- We… This isn't…"

"What you're saying is 'thanks, but no thanks,' huh? It's okay, I get the message." One brow arched up sardonically, and the seductive mouth curled into a grin. "Wrong time, wrong place… wrong guy." He straightened, giving a half-mocking salute. "Then I hope you don't mind if I slope off to take care of business for a little while? Thought as much--" And waving a casual farewell over his shoulder, he was sauntering away between the wrecked vehicles as if he were on a busy street in broad daylight. Ken sagged against the side of the sedan, running shaking fingers through his tangled hair.

Had everybody gone insane? On auto-pilot, he unlocked the car, fumbling under the seat for the thin, folded shape of the survival blanket, and instinctively relaxing when his questing fingers slid across the textured grips of a spare pistol. An involuntary smile twitched at Ken's mouth. _Well, if they're nuts, then so am I… _

First Omi, now the other half of the Blond Duo… He shook his head slightly, wrapping the blanket around him against the pre-dawn chill. It felt as if he were on the verge of some major epiphany that would allow him to understand what each of them had been trying to say. Ken had never grasped the subtleties of Yohji's sense of humor, for one thing. Perversion and innuendo made for some pretty un-funny jokes in the brunet's book, experience with what passed for amusing on the soccer circuit not withstanding. But this time, Ken could almost hear the older man saying, _hey, we're still good – the thing with Aya, it doesn't mean we don't want** you** around anymore._ Of course, it could also be the playboy's way of saying _I've got the itch, let's go scratch it together._ **_That_** would certainly also be in character. But Omi… that had definitely had the feel of desperation – and of fear. The poor kid had probably been scared witless by how close the mission had come to collapsing, and on top of the decision to break Weiss apart, too. Relief that Yohji had been able to snatch Ken back from the brink of the meat grinder, hitting him at a moment when emotions ran high had been the cause of that kiss. Nothing more. Like all of them, Omi tended to compartmentalize… to shove their night-time activities far, far away from his daily life. Things had just gotten a little out of control. That was all. Ken sighed heavily, the last vestiges of his smile long gone and replaced by a leaden sadness that dragged at him.

In a few hours, he'd go give the others a break; while the intricacies of hacking cell phones might be beyond a poor jock, he could watch the small video screens of the perimeter security system and give them a shot at catching some shut-eye in peace. Although… with Yohji gone for a bit, there was no need to play jan-ken-pon over the sleeping arrangements. The thought was enough to put a tiny smirk on his face as Ken leaned back the better of the car's two front seats, and curled comfortably into it.

* * *

The sunshine poking him in the eye brought with it the distinctly unpleasant feeling of having over-slept his shift at the flower shop. Ken jerked awake, only to meet the uninspiring landscape of crushed and scrapped cars heaped high on all sides. He squinted against the beam of light bouncing off of an unfortunately shiny bumper and revised his estimate of the time of day backwards a few hours; it couldn't possibly be more than eight or nine, meaning that he'd gotten about five hours of sleep. An injudicious attempt to squirm over onto his side and out of the reflected sun woke up a host of aches, and had him swearing under his breath. Oh yeah… five hours of sleep that was about twenty too little.

And the bottle of pain killers was with Omi, back in the tricked out van.

Muttering threats, Ken peeled back enough of the insulating blanket to lever himself up onto one elbow. His intention was to share the love and rudely shake the playboy out of his sweet dreams, but the other seat was empty. There was no sign that Yohji had even tried to adjust the steering wheel and the seat back to give himself enough room to stretch out – and a quick glance in the back confirmed that the taller man hadn't been desperate enough to fold into the bench seat, either. Alarmed, Ken sat all the way up, and winced when pain lanced through his entire right side.

_What a moron I am!_ he snarled wordlessly. Why had he assumed that his teammate was just heading to the tiny lavatory in the defunct bus parked next to their hideout? Or maybe to find a less smelly, but equally private corner nearby to jerk off? Now Ken would have to admit that he'd 'misplaced' the pain in the ass, and settle for praying that one of the cameras deployed to monitor their little kingdom of junk had picked something up. He wadded up the foiled blanket and crammed it back under the front seat, yanking simultaneously on the door handle. He tumbled out, automatically bending his knees to sink down into a crouch against the vehicle's side. Almost immediately, his ears picked up the low sounds of voices arguing, and identified them as the missing Yohji, and Aya.

A shiver of trepidation slid down Ken's spine, but he eased across the rusty ground anyway. Whoever was monitoring – Omi, presumably, since the other two were mere feet away and otherwise occupied – would know that he was awake and moving, but hopefully wouldn't blow the whistle. Cat-footed and silent, the brunet assassin tucked himself into a narrow split between the front end of a dead truck and a compacted cube of unidentified metal scrap, just in time to hear Yohji say with disgusted annoyance, "And don't you think that other people have a right to be let in on your decisions?"

"No, I don't. Before you and Omi approached me about leaving, Ken had already told me that it would be for the best, that he doesn't want me here. What business is it of yours if I happen to agree?" There was an edge of steel beneath the flatness of Aya's rejection, suggesting that the team's meddler had been at him for a while. But the content still made Ken stifle a whimper against his clenched knuckles. How could Aya have misunderstood? Far from not wanting him, the younger man wanted him too much; and at the same time knew that there was nothing within his power to offer that would do the least bit of good. Aya's changes ran too deep, and any attempt to fit the fractured pieces back together would have to start somewhere else. Ken couldn't mend the man's soul for him.

Sunk into introspection and misery, Ken missed the playboy's snorted reply, finally tuning back in when Aya snapped with some asperity, "I don't have to listen to this."

"No? Well, excuse me for caring!" Yohji shot back tartly. "Ken-chan is a friend, even if he's too busy guarding his virtue to relax around me. And he's a heck of a lot smarter than you or Omitchi give him credit for. Haven't you ever noticed that out of all of us, _he's_ the only one who's just himself? No masks, no misdirection. Just good old generous, earnest, klutzy Ken. If anyone has the guts to accept one of us – especially _you_ - without flinching, it's going to be him, not some psycho-babble-spouting Kritiker shrink--"

"Yohji!" Aya's tone was so deadly that for an instant, the eavesdropping athlete wondered if the redhead's resolution to set aside his sword had come to a crashing halt. But it was his next words that twisted the knife in Ken's wounds. "I do _not_ have any claims on Hidaka. And that's as it should be. He's his own person."

All of a sudden, it didn't matter if they discovered his presence, or not. Ken fell back onto his rear with a thump, rattling the leaves of metal that protruded from the sides of his hiding place. It figured that with neither target nor soccer ball in front of him that he'd turn into a complete klutz just like Yohji accused him of being, attracting the attention of the other two men, but Ken couldn't bring himself to care. There was a roaring in his ears, and his eyes stung as if a beach bully had kicked sand into them. It shouldn't surprise him that Aya was back-pedaling as fast as he could go. Not really. The redhead didn't handle emotional shocks at all well, preferring to shunt them to the side, or to box them carefully up, and what did Ken expect? It had barely been a day since he'd flat out told Aya that there wouldn't be any help coming from _him_, only to find that the other half of Weiss had done the same thing…

The crunch of light footsteps rounding the end of the compacted pile of scrap gave the brunet just enough time to hunch his shoulders defensively, but not to get up and run. It was the ostrich sort of thing to do, but Ken couldn't help but imagine that if he stared hard enough at the littered ground, and pretended that no one could see him, that it would come true. But then Yohji's stricken voice exclaimed, "Kenken! What are you--" before rounding on the silent redhead trailing him to growl, "Now look at what you did! He heard you, you lowlife shit--"

"Yohji. It's okay." The flat bitterness of his own tone surprised Ken. The volatile rage that had been gnawing at him seemingly forever leaked away, leaving him cold and exhausted. "It was stupid. I got so hung up on charging after Aya like the prince in some legend, waving a magical sword--" Peripherally, the slumped athlete noticed how the swordsman winced at the mention of his chosen weapon. "—on rescuing him, that I stopped thinking about _why_ he was there in the first place: because of a mission. Aya's right, anyhow. Work doesn't mix with personal crap. I've got no claim on him, either. This should have been about stopping the bastards from the beginning. We're the ones who made it into a quest to rescue the princess from the evil ogres, when we should have been looking at the bigger picture."

Yohji made a choked noise, smothering his own, instinctive protest, but Ken was sure that he was right; they'd all let themselves be derailed by the immediacy of rescuing one of their team. Callously, he continued, "And you're right, Yohji. I'm not like Aya. I don't think about a lot of stuff. I don't split moral hairs – I just try to do what my gut tells me is the right thing at the moment. You know: simple and direct, that's my motto. No deep thinking here." Finally, he glanced up, blinking back the swimming tears in an effort to make Aya's white, pained face stop wavering in his sight.

"Ken…" The low voice was conflicted, but the younger man so addressed waved it away.

"At least hear me out for once. I'm used to not being the brightest bulb in the bunch, and that's okay. But if we're gonna do our jobs… and I mean _really_ do them, then we need to eliminate the risk to the public, and that means cleaning up the stolen documents and money, right? That's what you said…" Anguished, his throat closed up and Ken swiped at the blurriness clouding his sight. The cuff of his shirt still smelled of blood, reminding him again that he needed a shower. 'But I…. I just wanted things to work ou- out…" Gulping, he began to sob in earnest.

Somewhere, far away, a somber voice repeated, "Ken, I didn't me--"

"Oh, give it a rest, Fujimiya! Haven't you done enough? He damn near got killed last night, and all because we went in there one man short. Bet you didn't think about that when you decided not to dirty your hands any more." The furious sneer was accompanied by a strong grasp that hauled Ken up from where he had hunched over, face buried in his drawn up knees.

"I've been doing nothing _but_ think!" Aya growled back, stepping in to intercept the older assassin. Yohji kept one arm protectively around the brunet's shoulders, shoving the thinner man hard enough to stagger him.

"You're off duty. Why don't you get some sleep – assuming your conscience will let you," Yohji snapped, then more gently, he murmured, "Come on, Kenken… Omitchi's got breakfast waiting, and I'll bet you're starved," as he led the younger man away.

But they weren't headed for the scruffy white van as Ken expected. Rather, Yohji pulled him into a cavity in the rough wall of stacked wreckage, a quiet pocket that reeked of spilled motor oil and rusty metal. Not that he cared. How had things ended up going so totally wrong, when a few scant days earlier, he'd thought the four of them were coming together, and gelling as a team? Resigned, Ken waited for the pain in the ass to get it over with and drop whatever it was that he was itching to say. Instead, Yohji pulled out a bar wrapped in shiny mylar, offering it to him.

"Hey, I know it's not the Ritz, but it's food. And you gotta eat." The crooked grin that invited Ken in on the joke slowly died away as he stood there holding the meal bar in his outstretched hand. Sighing, he grasped the athlete's hand and folded his fingers around the food. "Look, kiddo. If it makes you feel any better, I'm sorry Ayan went off on you. I was just trying to get him take a second look at his options, but he's so damned pig-headed--"

"Quit it, Kudoh." Ken interrupted wearily. "Enough with the talking. I'll bet you groped me before just so you could go wait for Aya without me getting in your way. Well, you can talk at him, at me, at whatever, all you want. Talking isn't going to change a damned thing."

"You and Aya… you really are made for each other. Can't you guys just not do everything to extremes? Look at that book of his--"

"Fuck off. I'm not interested."

Anger sparked in the jade eyes as Yohji slammed a fist into the corrosion-dotted curve of a chromed fender just beside Ken's ear, making the younger man jerk back. "Don't give me that, Soccer Boy. You can't just give up! For one thing, you say enough with the talking – what about the listening? I hear a lot of yapping, but I'm not seeing a lot of the _other_ half happening. Fine, you're bleeding. Suck it up, put a band-aide on it, and move _on_, will you? Now is not the time to be giving up."

Stunned, Ken stared into the flushed face inches away, barely noting the grimy lankness of the playboy's signature wavy locks, or the bloodshot recklessness in the exposed eyes. Then his shoulders slumped, and he dropped his gaze to the front of the older man's scruffy tee. What did it matter, anyhow? Aya agreed with him; it was time to get out of the team, time to leave it all. Shit, he should have let Yohji jump his bones, should have taken Omi's desperate offer, should have... should have done _something_ that would at least let him _feel_... "Yohji... I..." Ken waved a hand miserably at the world beyond the junk. "I... You didn't have to stick up for me. All that's left to do is to finish the mission." Ducking under the rigid arm, he slipped out of the quiet pocket in the wall of trash. "I gotta go relieve Omi; otherwise, he'll stay there till he drops."

**

* * *

Author's Notes:**

For a simple explanation of how cell phones work:

http/ www. yale. edu/ ynhti/ curriculum/ units/ 2003/ 4/ 03. 04. 07. x. html

I gave a great deal of thought to Weiss using the mercenaries' cell phones as bugging devices, but concluded that the enemy was sophisticated and experienced enough to be blocking many of the obvious weaknesses (such as GPS). If you're curious about some of the things I came across in the course of researching, here's an interesting article that ran in the December, 2004 issue of PC World magazine:

http/ www. pcworld. com/ howto/ article/ 0, aid, 118236, 00. asp

And the legal aspects of GPS in the US:

http/ www. privacyrights. org/ fs/ fs2b- cellprivacy. htm

The December 10, 2005 New York Times:

http/ www. nytimes. com/ 2005/ 12/ 10/ technology/ 10 phone. html? ex 1291870800 & en 2019ce 35d6b47983& ei 5090& partner rssuserland & emc rss

Without having Omi and Aya put everyone to sleep by discussing it at length in the fic, what they propose to do is very possible given that they now have the phone number belonging to the surviving Communist mercenaries. There are virus software programs that can do all sorts of interesting things when they get installed onto a target phone,

(An article in the International Herald Tribune, published by the New York Times, on the tapping of Greek officials ran on February 3, 2006:

http/ www. iht. com/ getina/ files/ 307567. html)

and also more mechanical ways of tapping a call. An example of one of the latter can be found at:

http/ www. hackcanada. com/ blackcrawl/ cell/ motorola/ fovchack. html

(I found this one interesting in part because I _do_ have an older Motorola cell phone sitting a few feet away on the desk as I type this.)

And a more sophisticated monitoring setup (although please note that the specs talk about Windows 95 and 98 – not XP, so this is obviously dated) in a .pdf file attached at:

http/ www. spygadgets. com/ telephone- recorders/ cell- phone- tapping. html

The internet is an endlessly entertaining place.


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